


Not One Perfect Moment

by fishyspots



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: (s), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banter, Blind Date, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, POV Alternating, as in there are many blind dates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:07:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27484738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishyspots/pseuds/fishyspots
Summary: "Oh, thank god.” David tips his drink back and Patrick is almost too distracted by the bob of his adam’s apple to register the blow. “No offense, but you’re not my type.”Patrick blinks. “That’s...something you just said. Wow, okay.”Or, David and Patrick meet on a blind date.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose, Stevie Budd & David Rose
Comments: 282
Kudos: 422





	1. It's only a first impression

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roguebaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roguebaby/gifts).



> Thanks to [roguebaby](https://roguebabyinyourstore.tumblr.com/) for letting me turn this brilliant idea into a fic (I can call it brilliant because it wasn’t my idea) and for the constant writing handholding and loveliness. And thanks also to [hagface](/users/hagface/) for the brilliant beta, thoughtful story suggestions, and affirmation. As always, thanks to [kindofspecificstore](/users/kindofspecificstore/) for the world building assist and all of the funniest jokes in this (especially naming Ray’s business; I am still laughing). This is finished, and I’ll be posting a chapter a day until complete.
> 
> Fic and chapter titles are from First Date.

“Do you have your keys?”

Patrick pats at his pocket. “I’m set, I think.” 

“This is exciting,” Ray says. He hands Patrick a thermos. “For the road. I know that I hate to eat anything heavy on a first date, and I thought you might be the same, as conscientious as you always are.”

“That’s...thanks, Ray.” Patrick takes the thermos and holds it as far away from himself as he can without being rude. “But I don’t know if—”

“I’m actually in the consumer survey phase of a soup delivery business,” Ray keeps talking, undeterred. “I have your standard chicken noodle for those unfortunate sick days, but I thought, why not turn it into something more takeout-friendly? When you think takeout, what do you think, Patrick?”

“Um. Pizza.” Patrick takes an unsubtle step toward the front door. Objectively, Ray is a model landlord. He doesn’t overcharge, and Patrick has his own bathroom. Ray takes care of all the utilities. But these conversations still make Patrick think longingly of rooms with locks and studio apartments. 

“Of course, of course.” Ray waves a hand. “But after that comes soup, no? That lovely warmth on a cold day, how filling it is, especially when served with bread or crackers. As a fellow businessman, you know exactly what I mean.”

“Will you be delivering bread and crackers, too?”

Ray taps his chin. “I hadn’t thought of that. We’ll have to see. It’s already going to be a lot of work picking up all those cans from the store every week.”

“Wait.” Patrick has to ask. “You’re getting the soup in cans?” 

“Yes! Delicious, homemade soup. Just think, Patrick, you’re sick and looking for a wholesome and satisfying meal. Then you call me, and I deliver a warm, delicious bowl of Campbell’s soup. Just like you remember. I call it Spoonfuls of Ray.”

“You call it _what?"_

“Spoonfuls of Ray.” Ray fishes around his pocket for the right business card. Patrick knows from experience that this might take a while. “I toyed with Ray by the Spoonful, but Ronnie seemed to think that this one was better.”

Patrick elects not to ask any more questions about the name. “You know that it's technically not true that the soup’s homemade, right?”

Ray shakes his head. “No, Patrick. Maybe you’re misunderstanding the business plan. I make the soup at home,” he says patiently. 

"But they make the cans of soup you make somewhere else." Patrick doesn’t have time for this. He budgeted ten extra minutes in case he got lost, and if he gets stuck in this conversation with Ray for much longer he’ll lose his buffer. “Not important. What kind of soup is it, anyway?”

“Clam chowder.” 

"Oh?” Patrick manages. “Oh, um, sure. I'm just going to go eat this. In the car." 

"Bring a spare shirt! I put it in the thermos so you wouldn't make a mess, but we both know how you are." 

"I'll do my best not to get...spoonfuls of Ray. All over me. Before my date." Patrick’s almost out the door before Ray speaks again, but he’s really let his reflexes slide since he got to town. 

“What spare shirt do you have?” Ray asks.

And it would be rude not to answer, really. “Just another one. Kind of like this one, but more, ah, blue.”

Ray tuts and shakes his head. "You'll want something with a bold pattern so you keep his attention. I've found that hand gestures help as well."

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Patrick finally makes it out the door. He can hear Ray talking until the door closes, though. 

"I can always lend you one of my branded polos if you want something bright and distinctive, and if you think anyone at the restaurant has dog grooming needs, well that's just a—"

Patrick takes a deep breath and puts the thermos in the passenger-side cup holder. The fishy smell is decidedly not great. Maybe once he gets further out he can dump it on the side of the road.

* * *

“How dare you make me do this.” David flips through the proofs for the new motel coasters and stews in his righteous anger. 

“David, you made me deal with a _dead body_.” Stevie points at the coaster David likes best, but he won’t say that. Not when she’s being such a little b. 

“You said you knew a guy!” David waves a hand at Stevie. “What was I supposed to do, insist that you let me move the body myself?”

“You didn’t have to barricade yourself in the attic until the coroner left, though.” 

“He didn’t have to die here.” David actually hated his time in the attic. It was spooky up there, especially when he entertained his worries about the dead guy haunting the fourth room from the left. 

“You said I could have whatever I wanted except for your Helmut Lang hoodie.” Stevie bumps David’s shoulder. David scoots away from her. The couch in the motel lobby is prehistoric, but it’s still pretty comfortable. They tend to hold their weekly meetings there rather than the attic or one of the rooms. “I don’t think I’m asking for too much.”

“But why are you so invested in me dating?” David asks. Maybe if he can get her distracted, he can get out of this. “I don’t think you want me less focused on what we’re building here.”

“I want you just as focused as I am,” Stevie corrects. 

“Judging by the way you made the beds this morning, you should probably want me a little more focused than you are.” David crosses his ankles primly.

“Will you stop?” Stevie asks. She sets the coaster that they both prefer to the side and turns to face David fully. “You owe me one blind date for every hour I had to keep guests out of their rooms while I waited for someone to pick up the dead guy.”

“So, what’s that? Three?” David can probably make that work. He’s out of practice at the whole dating thing, at least partially by choice, but he can be charming when he needs to be, if Brooke Shields is to be believed. Though she did sell him like six brow pencils, so she might not be a neutral observer. 

“I waited for six hours. That’s six dates.” Stevie’s smiling, and it’s terrifying. 

“Fuck, did you really?” David’s eyes go wide. “No fucking way. Not six. I don’t even know six people in this town I would want to date.”

“The whole point of blind dates is that you’ll get to meet new people,” Stevie says innocently. “Luckily for you, I know enough people for all of your dates.”

“Wait, you’re going to be setting these up?” David can tell his voice is going too high, but he can’t bring it back down. Stevie will have way too much fun with this. “Not a chance.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Stevie nods. “I’m a reasonable woman. I can always get Roland to—”

“Have I offended you in some way?” David asks. It’s not outside the realm of possibility. 

“You dick,” Stevie says fondly. “Is it that hard to believe that I actually want you to be happy?”

There’s something in David’s throat. A speck of dust, maybe, even though he’s dusted this office top to bottom five times in the last month. “I’m—”

“I’m sure you are.” David hates the way Stevie’s voice softens. This pity is getting really old. “This is more for me than anyone else. Frankly, it’s getting pathetic that I'm the last relationship you were in.”

“I’m the last relationship _you_ were in, though.” 

Stevie grimaces. “Um, about that.”

“What?”

“I may have talked to Jake. After that party. You know, the night before your parents left?”

“You _talked_ to Jake. I can’t believe I’m just hearing about this now,” David says. “It’s been, what, six months since then? Have you been dating Jake this whole time?”

“Technically no one is ever dating Jake.” Stevie makes what she’s saying sound far too reasonable. “But then again, everyone is always dating Jake.”

“What does that mean.” 

“It means that you’re officially one relationship behind me. Time to catch up. And now you have six chances to get there. You should really be thanking me.”

“Oh, Stevie,” David affects his most needy, breathy voice, the one that one of his partners called hauntingly pathetic. “Thank you ever so much for forcing me to spend six nights with six different carnies. All I can hope for is that one of them will fall in love with me and then I’ll be the happiest carnie transplant in the greater Elms.”

“That’s the spirit. Your first carnie will be meeting you this Friday. Don’t be late.”

“Why would you plan a date without checking with me? What if I’m busy?”

Stevie puts a hand on David’s shoulder and squeezes. It makes something tight unspool inside him. “David. I’m your only friend. You’re not busy.”

“Can I at least tell you where I’d like to meet? I don’t do well in fluorescent lighting.”

“I’ll take care of the lighting.” Stevie grabs for his phone and types an address into his maps app. “You feel good about neon, right?”

* * *

Patrick runs his hands down the front of his shirt almost obsessively. It has to be right. This has to be right. It already feels more right than it’s ever felt, putting himself out there like this, and he wants to keep up the trend.

Sure, it’s terrifying, but it’s the right kind of terrifying. 

One more step. One more step and he’s across the threshold and inside the restaurant. Once he’s in the restaurant he’ll tell the hostess “hi, I’m here meeting someone. His name is Miguel and I’ll be at the bar whenever he gets here.” Then he’ll do just that. And he’ll stick to beer. He’s wearing his lucky shirt, which is a light purple departure from his usual blues, and he’s ready. He can take that step.

Someone in a fuzzy sweater breezes past him. A big, warm hand lands on his shoulder. “Sorry.”

“No worries,” Patrick says absently. And like a liar, because he is in fact filled with many worries. He checks his phone one more time for the details. Right place, right time.

He steps inside and enacts his plan, then orders a pilsner at the bar. The man with the sweater is a few stools away drumming his fingers against the bar, which is covered with bottle caps encased in resin. He’s staring distrustfully at a neon sign for Shock Top. Patrick bites his lip to hold back his smile and lets his gaze track from the man’s lithe fingers and up his broad chest and gorgeous neck to his eyes. Which are burning a hole through Patrick. 

“Um, hi there,” the man says. His voice is smooth and slightly higher than he was expecting. Patrick would do a lot to keep him talking. “There’s no chance you’re here for a blind date, is there?”

Oh god. It’s time. Patrick takes a breath and lets it out slowly. “I am. Are you—I left my name with the hostess.”

“Oh,” the man—Miguel—waves a hand airily. “I just came straight back here. I figured you would text once you were here. You have my number, yes?”

“Yes,” Patrick confirms. “I guess that makes sense. Did you want to go over—or we could—sorry.” He takes another breath. His words are coming too quickly, and his lungs can’t keep up. “It’s been a while since I did this.”

“If we’re sharing, then I should say it’s been a while for me too.” Miguel’s smile makes Patrick melt. He nods toward the now-empty bottle in Patrick’s hand. “Can I get you another?”

Patrick nods as a thrill goes through him at all the ways this is different from other dates he’s been on. He hasn’t done this for real since Rachel.

Fuck. Don’t think about Rachel on a first date.

“So,” he casts about for a topic as Miguel orders and pays for his beer. “You own your own...is business the right word?”

“I would say so,” Miguel says. There’s a pleased smile tugging at his mouth, and a cute dimple cuts into his stubbled cheek. “And tell me about what you do. I’m a little fuzzy on the details.”

“I actually work for room and board at the moment, among other things.” Patrick winces at the way that sounds, but Miguel’s distinctive eyebrows shoot up in interest. “That’s not—I live at Ray’s. Ray Butani?”

“I hate to tell you that that information doesn’t really narrow down what you do,” Miguel says, that secret smile still fighting to be seen.

Patrick tilts back his chin and laughs. Probably harder than the joke calls for, but it feels good. Calming, in a way. “You make a good point,” he says. “Business consulting. A little of everything. Mostly trying to keep all of Ray’s own businesses in order.”

“A full-time job on its own.” Miguel nods. 

“Enough about Ray,” Patrick says firmly. “Let’s talk about something else. Tell me something about you.”

“Something? Like, anything?” Miguel asks. His voice is cool and detached, but there’s something mobile about his face that Patrick finds intriguing. He wants to keep Miguel talking.

“Threw you a changeup there, huh?” Patrick basks in the thrill of being interesting before Miguel starts talking. 

“I mean, I don’t play cricket.”

“Baseball,” Patrick corrects. 

“Same thing.” Miguel winks, and Patrick finds himself endeared despite all of his questions about how he could miss a reference like that. “So, I just have to tell you one thing?”

“Anything,” Patrick says. “Something about you. Where did you go to vet school?”

“Vet school?” Miguel says the words like they’re dirty, which is a surprise considering that he’s—

“I don’t think you have the right person,” Miguel or whatever his name is says. “You’re not Grant, huh?”

“And you’re not Miguel.” Patrick’s cheeks flush. He’s a little disappointed. 

“David.”

“Patrick.” Patrick does a little wave. Like an idiot. “Well, we can still—”

“Oh, thank god.” David tips his drink back and Patrick is almost too distracted by the bob of his adam’s apple to register the blow. “No offense, but you’re not my type.”

Patrick blinks. “That’s...something you just said. Wow, okay.”

David puts a hand on Patrick’s forearm and squeezes. “That’s something I just said.” It’s not an apology, but he’s making a somewhat repentant face. “I didn’t—I meant—I didn’t mean that. I find you flustering.”

“Flustering? Is that a thing?”

“I don’t know,” David says. “You just. We clearly don’t have anything in common, and you’re really, um. Nice. Like, offensively nice.” He winces but keeps talking. “I’m sure you’d get sick of me by the time our food came or you’d eventually stop being able to follow my—it’s not that—”

“You think I couldn’t handle you for one conversation?” Patrick can feel his hackles going up without his permission, but this is one of the worst possible outcomes he’d prepared for tonight. He tastes the feeling that’s been knocking him backward and hitting him over the head for the past few months, that all-too-familiar inadequacy and sense of being too late. “I’m not a total—it’s not like _you’re_ —”

“Okay,” David holds up a hand. There’s something tight and frustrated playing around his mouth where before there was...flirtation? Something like it, at least. “Clearly it’s for the best that this isn’t happening. Best of luck. In all your future endeavors.”

The fact that David leaves Patrick floundering and speechless doesn’t help soothe Patrick’s ire. “Uh huh. Sure.”

David furrows his fucking _hot_ eyebrows. Patrick hates that his breath catches. He’s just—he’s got to write David off, and fast, because the real Miguel, the one who won’t insinuate that he’s both bland and scared, will be here any minute. 

Their phones are both resting next to each other’s on the bar, and someone’s vibrates. To Patrick’s disappointment, it’s David’s.

“That’s, um.” David taps the side of his phone and then the top of the bar. “That’s me.” He takes a breath. “I just want to—”

“You should go,” Patrick says before David can finish. He needs some time to center himself or something. “It’s, um. I hope your second first impression goes better than this one.”

The sides of David’s mouth twist downwards and something flickers through his eyes too fast for Patrick to catch and parse. “Great,” he says shortly. “Wonderful. Um, enjoy.” He reaches into a pocket—Patrick spares a moment to be impressed that he could even fit his hand in there, those jeans are practically painted on—and pulls out his wallet, then drops a few bills on the bar. “Should cover yours, too.”

Before Patrick can protest that he neither needs nor wants David’s pity drink, David’s gone. He pauses after he takes a few steps toward the entrance where a man with ruffled hair and a flannel that’s either really expensive and artfully distressed or just old is waiting. He squares his shoulders and visibly shakes something off. Patrick assumes it’s him. 

The person who has to be Grant smiles easily and makes a joke that has David laughing before they’re even at their table. 

Patrick turns back to the bar in front of him. David’s a decent tipper, for all of his other traits.

When Mandy comes to grab Patrick because he’s a decent human being who left his name at the front unlike some people he won’t deign to mention, he follows her toward the table with a forced spring in his step. This can still be good. He can salvage this. 

“You must be Patrick,” a man with gorgeous arms and a sweet smile says. He stands from where he was sitting in a two-person booth against the wall with a candle flickering in the center and dark brown upholstered seats when Mandy drops Patrick off with a quick recitation of the specials. 

“That’s me,” Patrick says. It’s almost reassuring to do this. It’s not like it can go worse than his earlier attempt with David. “Where are you coming from? The practice? Or somewhere else?”

Miguel smiles and leans forward onto his elbows. Patrick won’t claim that he knows what he’s doing, but that seems like a favorable sign. “What if you guess?”

And Patrick feels what David must have felt earlier, that sense of needing to prove himself. Except David’s done this before, he reminds himself, so surely it wasn’t so jarring. David’s probably exceptionally comfortable baring himself, even in public. Not like—that, god, now his ears are going to be all red and Miguel is trying to talk to him. He has to get it together. 

“For my sake, I hope it wasn’t anywhere more interesting than your practice,” he says. “Ray mentioned you work pretty long hours in the summer.”

“Feral cat season,” Miguel says.

Patrick hums. “Sexy.”

To his horror, Miguel rears back. “Feral cats? Really?”

“No,” Patrick says, fast. “Oh my god, no, I was—it was a joke.”

Miguel squints at him but visibly shakes off his horror. “If you say so.”

“I was just—never mind.” Patrick hears a laugh from behind Miguel, and he looks over his date’s shoulder to see the worst thing that’s happened to his night since the last thing that happened to his night. David’s hiding his smile behind his hand, which is a shame. 

Patrick shakes his head. It’s a shame, because David’s clearly having a much easier go of it than he is. Probably telling all kinds of stories about the bumbling idiot who thought he stood a chance with someone so...him. Screw him, Patrick decides. Except, not screw him. The opposite of screw him. 

“Do you have any pets?” Miguel asks.

And this is simple. It’s polite if detached conversation, and Patrick suffered through neverending networking events throughout college and his first few years in accounting for exactly this kind of situation.

Not dates, but something similar. God, he needs to get out more. Or get out of his head more. He needs to focus, is the point. He can hear Rachel’s laugh on their first date at the junior prom echoing in his head. “Didn’t you think we’d have to talk a little bit?” she’d asked that night. He inhales through his nose and tries to relax on the exhale like he learned during Ray’s yoga class last Thursday. 

“I don’t have any pets now, but I grew up with an orange tomcat,” he says.

Miguel nods and launches into a story about his own childhood pets: a poodle and a Dalmatian at the same time, which must have made for lopsided walks.

Patrick’s gaze drifts from Miguel’s neat hair to the man behind him. David’s not looking at him at first, but when Grant runs his hand through his own hair and pushes off the table to lean back against the cushioned seat behind him, David’s eyes wander up toward the ceiling and catch Patrick looking on the way back down. His lips press together into a thin line and he tucks his hands under the booth after an aborted attempt to—throw them up in resignation? Flip Patrick off? Unclear.

David recovers beautifully, though, nodding once to Patrick and then turning his attention back to Grant. But later, when Patrick watches David excuse himself and head to the bathroom, he decides to follow. Unfortunately for him, he excuses himself in the middle of a story about Miguel’s greatest enemy, another vet who thinks Miguel’s selling sex and not flea shampoo like he actually is and how it’s so hypocritical after the other guy's quote-unquote accidental bunny video.

Patrick regrets a lot of things as he waits outside the heavy wooden door for David to emerge. It feels much creepier to follow him inside.

David startles when he sees Patrick, but he shrugs it off. “How’s it going?”

The nerve of this guy. Patrick hates the condescension in his voice. “I have to say, David, you’re really doing better with all this than I would expect.” David seems the type to sigh and frown his way through most inconveniences.

“Please.” David fiddles with the cuff of his sweater and pulls it down over the joint of his thumb. Then he settles it back into its original position. “This doesn’t even make my top five worst dating experiences.”

“How is that even possible?” Patrick feels like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin. The only comfort he was taking from this is that David was feeling as awkward as he was. But now David’s just...fine. 

“Well, when you find out that your longest relationship to date was an open relationship for, like, the longer half,” David says thoughtfully, “it sort of puts things into perspective.” He doesn’t say it like he’s fishing for pity, is the thing. It’s matter-of-fact, like David’s comfortable with who he is even after that experience. It gives Patrick absurd hope that he’ll be able to do this, that he can don a shirt for a date and not think about which one was Rachel’s favorite or how she best liked his hair (longer, usually, and shaggy in a way that drove him up a wall).

“I see,” Patrick says, even though he doesn’t. 

“Just don’t tell me you thought you were meeting my sister,” David warns. “Or you’ll shoot into the top fifty like _that_.”

Patrick blinks. “Got it.”

“And, um,” David reaches toward Patrick’s shoulder but draws his hand back like he’s changed his mind. “Good luck.”

Patrick watches David go. Good luck. Fucking _really._ Like Patrick wants his well wishes, or like he needs the help.

This _guy._


	2. I go building up walls yet I wish to be found

“I was so sure he was going to throw his drink at me or storm out or something.” David studies his nail beds. He hasn’t gotten a proof of life text from Alexis in weeks, so they could be better. 

“You have got to stop watching _The Real Housewives_.”

“You have got to stop trying to change me.”

“You have got to stop watching them without me,” Stevie bargains. David nods. He can make that work. “And this was all before Grant even showed up?”

“That’s another thing,” David says, because he’s on a righteousness roll now. “Grant, of all people? I’ve seen you flirting with Mr. Fix-it, don’t forget. We talked about how he was in bed, even. In what twisted little universe was Grant a good choice for a date for me?”

“It’s a small town,” Stevie says, and it takes David back immediately to a similar patient-but-frustrated tone from the night before. Stevie’s version is infinitely more reasonable and less done with him, which is surprising. Stevie usually sounds very done with him. 

“Not _that_ small. I don’t want any of that.” David does not say that he and Grant had nothing to talk about beyond the standard screwing innuendo that David honed years earlier with various HGTV personalities. But he and Stevie both know the kind of mental gymnastics he’d be willing to do to see Grant again if the conversation had been better.

“I just thought, as we discussed at the time, that Grant is _also_ not that small, and—”

“Okay.” David stands up and brushes the lint that he’s sure the motel transfers onto his clothes constantly off of his culottes. “Thanks so much.”

“Wait, stop.” Stevie pulls out her phone and turns the screen to face David. “You gave me a short list for the shampoo you wanted to carry in the rooms last week, but you still haven’t said anything about a final decision.”

“I’m still oscillating.” David had settled on a body wash surprisingly quickly, but shampoo had proven more difficult. Hair types aside, the scent profile he’s trying to create is very specific. “Can I have another week?”

“No,” Stevie says. “You’ve already had nearly a month. We can’t keep offering high-end loofahs and soap paired with shampoo from the bargain bin at the general store. Gwen said they were going to start carrying Gel Time products next month.”

“You got that shampoo from the bargain bin?” David snatches Stevie’s phone. “My god, why didn’t you tell me it was an emergency?”

* * *

“I just don’t think it’s for me, Ray.”

Ray taps a finger against Patrick’s desk. “If I gave up after my third failed business, where do you think I would be right now, Patrick?”

“Is that a trick question?” Patrick directs his attention to the stack of business filings Ray’s months behind on. He still can’t believe how far behind Ray was when he moved in. He’s slowly digging out of the paperwork mountain, but it’s been a slog.

“I know you haven’t experienced the same thrill I’ve felt when starting a new business, but surely the metaphor is not too convoluted.” Ray slides a bowl of potato leek soup across the counter. 

Patrick grabs a roll, pulls off a piece, and dunks it into the broth. “It’s not that I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He doesn’t know how to explain this in a way that Ray will understand, but then again he feels that way about most things he tries to talk to Ray about, like filing deadlines and commingling funds and the benefit of white space on business cards. “It’s that I’m just not sure it’s for me.”

“You’re not sure that what’s for you?” Ray folds his arms and takes Patrick in. He does this sometimes. Patrick can see in moments like this how Ray can keep a dozen different and sometimes contradictory ventures afloat. 

“I just,” Patrick dips another piece of bread and watches it get soggy. It breaks apart in the hot soup, but Patrick doesn’t take it out. He just watches. “I sometimes feel like I’ve missed it, you know? My whole...chance.”

“Your chance to open a small business? Patrick, I was just joking about that. And besides, what would the world be without business managers like you keeping the road paved for moguls like me, hm?”

“Not that, Ray.” Patrick shoves the mushy bread into his mouth to stop himself from spilling anything more in front of his landlord and boss. This is already wildly unprofessional, and Patrick can feel his old sensibilities itching under his collar. It’s not workplace talk, but this is also his house, so the lines are blurry. Patrick doesn’t do well with blurry lines. 

“Oh, I see.” Ray sits down in a chair next to Patrick with his own bowl of soup. “You’re worried about dating.”

Patrick nods once, then lifts his spoon. Ray’s trying his own recipes this week, and this one is serviceable. A little light on the actual potatoes, maybe, but not bad at all.

“Patrick, do you know what I said on the eve of my first business’s opening day?”

Patrick braces for impact and shakes his head. 

“I said, Ray, you are capable and no one else can do what you do. You’re important. And if it doesn’t work, at least you’ve tried.”

“That’s not bad, Ray.”

“I should hope not. That material went directly onto one of the self-help tapes I was selling.”

It’s suddenly imperative for Patrick to focus on his spoon. If not, he’ll do something horrible like laugh while his well-meaning-but-clueless friend is trying to be encouraging. “I hope you sold a lot of tapes.”

“Just two.” Ray looks far less devastated than Patrick would when faced with such a failure. “No one in town had cassette players anymore. Though I will say, there’s always a silver lining. My second business, Schitt’s Creek Ray-cords, launched that very same month.”

“Fine,” Patrick says. “I’ll go out again this weekend.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Ray grabs a single-serve packet of crackers, opens it, and crumbles the saltines into his bowl. “Were you on the fence?”

* * *

Because David was something truly terrible in a past life, like a spin instructor or an axe murderer or a receptionist at the Allez-Vous corporate office, he sees the same big brown eyes and another pastel collared shirt the next Friday. 

“I really didn’t think you would come back,” David says as he slides into the seat next to Patrick at the bar. It’s as close to a white flag as he’s willing to wave, and not just because the draping on this sweater takes forever to get right. 

“Oh, you thought I should be the one to leave?” Patrick raises a barely there eyebrow. There’s something sharp in his voice that David doesn’t really want to poke at even if stepping over boundaries is sort of his brand. “Hate to disappoint you.”

“That’s not what I—” David takes a centering breath. “You know what? Not the point. Consider this my olive branch. Let’s start over, or something.”

“Start over?” Patrick takes a sip of his drink. “Seems too simple.”

“Sometimes the simplest choice is the best.” David shrugs. He’s learned that lesson in multiple guest interactions this week. Still, he doesn’t know how he was supposed to predict the ways people would misuse the hair oil they’re testing. 

“Sure,” Patrick says pleasantly. Thank god. The unresolved tension was hanging over David all day, and now they can just— “Though nothing about you suggests that you’re into simple.”

That rankles a bit, but Patrick’s probably due for a potshot or two. David lets it slide and takes a sip of his drink. He’s embarrassed himself too thoroughly and often to mix alcohol with a first (or second, or third) date, so he’s sticking to his soda water with lime. He’s pretty sure it still fits within the bounds of Stevie’s date rules. No SOS texts unless they’re genuine, being bored is not an emergency, drink something, try to give it an actual chance or I swear to god I’ll call Alexis and let her deal with you. The last one probably isn’t the threat Stevie wants it to be since he hasn’t heard from Alexis since she sent pictures of her super-cute live-work space (read: studio apartment) in Tribeca two weeks ago..

Patrick keeps going though. He’s been thinking about their last conversation too, clearly, though not in the same why-did-I-do-that way David has. “And I wanted to thank you. Without you, I’d maybe start to worry that going on all these dates was silly or a waste of time.”

“You’re welcome?” David’s stomach sinks in that way it always does before the sting of a remark that cuts too close at the soft part of him.

“But here you are,” Patrick says brightly. “Still trying.”

The worst part is, it’s not insulting on its face. It’s couched in just enough fake positivity that David can’t respond without potentially overshooting the barb and saying something he can’t take back. But then again, the self-satisfied smirk on Patrick’s face tells him that Patrick knows exactly what he’s doing. What he wants his words to do. Well, fuck if David will tell him he succeeded. 

David rolls his lips in and bites down. He doesn’t want to say anything else or encourage Patrick to keep talking. This is already hellish enough without adding fuel to the fire. Instead, he lifts his phone, the screen of which is still dark. He gives it a shake and stands up. “I’m just going to go. Hope this one goes well. Better, even. Hope it goes better.”

“You don’t have to go,” Patrick says, a thread of something that David categorically refuses to pull in his voice, but David doesn’t respond. He might even be able to get away with pretending he didn’t hear him if he walks fast enough.

He goes back to his car, gets in, and turns on the stereo. The Lincoln is fucking ancient, but there’s a decent early-2000s station that does Mariah at least once every few hours. Maybe he’ll get lucky.

And because his pride is already subterranean, now is as good a time as any to do his twice-weekly Alexis text. It’s not like she’ll ask for details. 

Alexis  
  
**Today** 6:55 PM  
David: If you’re going to keep ignoring me at least turn your read receipts on so I know you have your phone  
  
David: None of us want a Prague repeat  
  
Alexis: for the last time prague was not my fault, JTT is just super vague over aol instant messenger  
  
Alexis: why are you texting me on a friday nite anyway does stevie have a date  
  


David gives it up as a bad job and focuses on the music. 

* * *

Patrick’s listening to a story about the worst tests Gary’s administered—once, someone tried to take their driving test in a motorcycle—when David slips past his table to sit in the next one over with his date. She’s cute, and he’s smiling, and Patrick feels something unclench. He shifts his focus back to Gary. It’s a good date story and deserves his attention.

They get through the entree on those stories and a few of Patrick’s own about consultations gone wrong. Patrick’s pretending he doesn’t already know what he wants for dessert when Gary clears his throat and sets his own menu down.

“Did you want to come back to mine?” Gary asks. His tone stays flat; Patrick can’t tell if he’s excited by the prospect or not, and he wasn’t expecting some fairytale but a little enthusiasm wouldn’t go amiss. “I get free coffee and donuts at Elmdale College because I’m still taking a few classes to finish up, so I can buy you breakfast.”

“That’s generous of you,” Patrick says. He bites the side of his cheek to hold in a smile because the least he can do for the sake of his pride is find this funny. “But I think I’m good for tonight.”

“That’s cool.” Gary arranges his silverware on his plate and sets his napkin on top. “Anyway, I’ve got to get to a gig here pretty soon, so I’ll let you finish up here.”

“A gig?” Patrick manages. 

“I’m a part-time DJ. Looking to expand into full-time, and I’ve got this retirement party in a few hours that might open up some real possibilities for me.”

Patrick wonders idly if Gary’s ever met Ray. “Sounds promising.”

“And if this isn’t happening, then I should really get to a sound check. We good here?”

“I guess?” Patrick’s flustered now at the idea that Gary’s just leaving like this. “Did you want to maybe—” 

“Thanks.” Gary slides out of the booth and drops a business card next to Patrick’s beer. “This is for you. In case you ever need someone for a party, or if you change your mind about those donuts. They’re really good at the beginning of the week. Before they start to go stale.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Have fun at your...nighttime retirement party.” Patrick watches Gary leave and realizes too late that he’s been stuck with the tab and with David’s eyes on him. He can’t decide which one feels worse.

David makes an ostensibly sympathetic face and winks at his date, then gets up and heads to the bar. Patrick takes advantage of his brief privacy to let out a shaky sigh and check his phone. It’s only been an hour, which is a little sad for him. He can’t even keep a guy around through dessert, apparently. 

David taps Patrick's shoulder as he's coming back from the bar. "Did he just say—" 

Patrick throws back the rest of his drink. "I think he did."

David drops another bottle of Patrick’s standard hazy IPA on the table and then hesitantly reaches out to squeeze Patrick’s shoulder. The touch is soothing. Patrick blames his battered ego. “I should get back to Tennessee.”

“Why would you go to Tennessee?” Patrick doesn’t understand much about David but he maybe understands this least of all.

“That’s her name. My date. You’re...okay?”

“I can handle rejection,” Patrick says, because the only thing worse than David gloating is this charity. Even so, he can’t take his eyes off of the bottle in front of him. He hadn’t realized David was paying attention. God, he has to apologize now. He’s very bad at this part. “I’m—”

“Don’t,” David advises. “Focus on something else. Finish your drink, go see a movie, go shopping for a better shirt. Distract yourself.”

Tennessee turns to see what’s taking David so long. Patrick hurries him along. “While you’re very distracting, I’m going to have to ask you to get back to your own date before it ends like mine.”

David grimaces. “But we’re talking about pine cones.”

“Fascinating.” Patrick presses his lips together. It’s comforting to know that things aren’t all roses for David, either. 

“I learned how to harvest them, Patrick,” David mutters under his breath. His booth isn’t that far away, but he’s being careful. “Apparently she wanted to go this year but ran into some issues. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do if she asks me to touch a tree.”

“I’m sure you’ll put that information to practical use someday very soon,” Patrick says patiently. “Go away.”

“If I come here next week smelling like Christmas, just know I blame you.” David isn’t smiling per se, but there’s a hint of something warm along the curve of his cheek. Patrick can’t look away, though he knows it’s not for him. Even when David sits back down with Tennessee and rests a hand on his chin in an approximation of interest for whatever she’s saying about seasons and compasses, Patrick can’t tear his eyes off of his badly hidden happiness. 

Tennessee makes her excuses and leaves not much later, and David pays the bill then gets up quickly. Patrick watches him smooth down his sweater, which is bunched up in lots of different places but in a way that looks purposeful. He veers right instead of left at the hostess stand and sits at the bar. 

Patrick bounces his knee. He still feels unfinished and queasy after their earlier conversation. Like usual, he realized moments too late that he was happily poking a sore spot for no good reason. David probably didn’t deserve that.

He swoops in as David slides a card across the bumpy bartop. “Let me.” He hands over his own card and tries to imbue his voice with apology, but he’s not sure about his success. David still looks suspicious, so he missed at least some of the mark. 

“You don’t have to do that.” David doesn’t move to stop him. 

“I want to,” Patrick says. It’s true, even. “I was such a—I shouldn’t have made this harder for you. It’s already really fucking hard.”

“That is accurate,” David says slowly. Patrick leans forward more with each word, the space between them just long enough to make him wonder what comes next. He’s never met anyone who talks quite like David. Or anyone who does most things like David. “Blind dates especially so, in my experience.”

“What made you start going on blind dates?” Maybe they’ll have something in common.

“My friend started setting me up.” David rolls his eyes and leans back on his stool. “She seemed to think that I needed it. And then I owed her, so she could swoop in and collect. Like a vulture.”

“Hold on,” Patrick says, indignance rising up and pushing out before he can think it through. “You’re doing these as a joke and you’re still doing better than me?” 

Something flashes in David’s eyes. “That’s not—”

But Patrick’s already walking it back. “Wow, I am really stepping in it tonight. Fuck. Sorry.”

David hums and tears a neat strip off of his napkin. “Sure.”

“And that was also a shitty apology.” Patrick can’t get his brain to work around David. It’s becoming a problem, though it’s not the only thing tripping him up. His competitive streak keeps flaring up even though this isn’t a game and David’s not his competitor. “Really, sorry. I mean it.”

“You would be surprised and perhaps horrified to learn just how low my standards are for an apology,” David says lightly. Like it’s a foregone conclusion, or somehow okay. 

“Let me make it up to you,” Patrick says. “I didn’t get dessert earlier. Want to order something here and have one last drink?”

A furrow appears between David’s eyebrows. He mulls over the offer while Patrick fights to keep himself from walking it back or turning it into a joke. “Why not?” he says finally. 

* * *

“Last call, boys.” Mandy taps Patrick’s shoulder. Apparently she’s left the hostess stand to pursue the illustrious task of kicking them out. “And I’m glad to see you both stuck around. I put you back at those tables because I wanted you to have a familiar face.”

“Mm.” David has more to say, but Patrick takes over.

“That’s fine,” Patrick says. “We’re just about done.”

David puts his head in his hands as she walks away. 

Patrick—who’s actually fun to talk to and tease once they’re both in on the joke—prods his shoulder. “Hey.” He sounds worried. “Did you have too much?”

“I’ve been drinking soda water,” David says into his palms. “I closed down a _sports bar,_ and I don’t even have the excuse of alcohol clouding my judgment.”

“Not a normal pastime?”

David lifts his head and glares at Patrick, but there’s maybe less heat behind it than he was going for. “I don’t have the time to explain to you just how off-brand this is for me.”

“I’m so sorry,” Patrick says solemnly. “This must be really hard for you.” 

David doesn’t know why Patrick’s so unruffled; he hasn’t had a drink since before their food—cheesecake and mozzarella sticks because a sweet and savory balance is critical and David was trying to keep his horrifying food habits under wraps earlier, holding out until a second date if one ever happened—arrived. This looks just as bad for him. “It is. It is very hard for me.”

Patrick coughs and busies himself with the receipt. 

“We can split that,” David says. “You had to cover your whole dinner.”

“I want to pay for the apology cheesecake.” Patrick holds the receipt close to his chest. So then David’s looking at his chest and the way Patrick’s popped the top two buttons, revealing more skin than he did earlier in the night. 

“Fine,” David says absently.

Patrick sighs. “Is there something wrong with my shirt?”

“Besides the fact that you should really invest in more jewel tones?” The words come automatically, and David wrinkles his nose. He hasn’t had to do this much work on his image since those paparazzi photos in 2011.“That’s not—”

“Have you ever filtered a thought?” Patrick asks. But it’s not a dig; he sounds genuinely interested.

“No comment.”

“I wish I could be more like that,” Patrick says softly. “I don’t do that.”

“Well, let me be perhaps one of the first to tell you to chase your bliss,” David says. 

“Chase my bliss,” Patrick repeats, eyes just south of David’s own. 

_Oh._ Okay, hold on. 

“Mm.” David lifts his glass to his mouth and takes a long drink, then lowers the glass and licks his lips. Patrick’s attention is gratifying, if surprising. Still, he wouldn’t be opposed. That is to say, if it were to happen, he would let it happen. If Patrick wanted it to happen.

“So, what’s next?” Patrick asks softly. “Another sports bar?”

“No, you know what? I’m actually in the mood to—” But before David can finish his thought, Patrick’s mouth is pressing up against his, hot and tasting like hops and something new. David toys with the idea of pushing Patrick’s perfectly symmetrical mouth away, but instead he leans his weight against Patrick’s chest. 

“Sorry.” Patrick starts babbling the moment he pulls away. He heaves a breath and David feels it against his cheek. It’s hot and sweet. He thinks it feels a little familiar for all that it’s brand new. “Sorry, I know we shouldn’t.”

“Shouldn’t?” David asks. He tries to fight through the fog Patrick spread through his brain, but all he wants after their earlier misunderstandings and bickering is a chance to just—put all of this somewhere. This feeling. This feeling of something that has to go. He can’t keep it inside him for that much longer. 

“Well, I don’t know if shouldn’t is exactly the word.” 

“What we should do,” David says, “is book a room or something.” He pauses for a moment, worried that he’s assumed too much, but Patrick’s frantic nod is gratifying and reassuring in equal measure. He can do this. This one-night kind of thing is his comfort zone, and he knows what to say and how to manage things to get what he needs. What it seems like they both might need. 

Heat thrums in David’s bloodstream and in his nerve endings wherever Patrick brushes up against him—the squeeze of David’s forearm before he drives them both to a little roadside motel not unlike David and Stevie’s, the way he buries his face in the back of David’s neck when he fumbles with the room key, the way he runs a thumb across David’s lower lip. 

“David, we—”

David nips at it and tugs Patrick closer by the hips once the door to their room is closed and locked behind them. “We?” It’s the first time David’s felt in control. It’s heady, the sense of knowing that Patrick can’t string a sentence together. He won’t flatter himself and say it’s all because of him, though. Patrick’s still new, and everything feels like a revelation at the beginning. But it’s a little flattering just the same. 

“God, David, can we?” Patrick pushes his hips up into David’s hands and forward so that the front of his jeans brushes David’s tight skirted pants. He makes a frankly unfair noise at the friction. “I know you don’t—that is, I know we don’t—” He bites his lip and lets his head fall back. His chin tilts toward the sky, frustrated. 

“Hey,” David says. He’s been where Patrick is, and he knows what he would have wanted at the time. He’s ruined a lot of things for Patrick. His first date back out there. His confidence, probably. He’s not even going to touch all the ways they ruined each other’s dates tonight. Patrick will never like him, but maybe he can at least make something...okay. For Patrick. “We don’t have to have this conversation now. I’m sure that you don’t want to, um.”

“I mean, I _want_ to. With you.” Patrick runs a hand across David’s collarbone. The touch isn’t that suggestive, but it still lights him up from the inside out. 

And that’s enough for now. “We can.” 

David pushes Patrick away when he reaches for the bottom of his sweater. It’s not worth the potential risk. He folds it carefully and sets it on the dresser, then descends on the buttons of Patrick’s shirt. Patrick plays at pushing him away, but honestly ripping this shirt and taking it out of Patrick’s rotation would be a mercy, so David braves Patrick’s shoves. 

Once their shirts are off, Patrick grabs David by the hips and moves him with a sure grip. He knocks him backward until he’s flat on the bed. The sheets are scratchy and if he had more brainpower to spare he’d bemoan the thread count and color scheme because dark brown is not a reassuring shade for communal bedding. But David can’t think about that when Patrick gets at his earlobe and tugs with his teeth. Patrick’s mouth is bruising and sharp; he’s got something to prove. 

David’s happy to let him do whatever he needs to do so long as they get their clothes off. He fumbles at Patrick’s braided belt, which, _ugh_ , this person is so desperately in need of a good date night look that it’s a little sad, and yes he knows he’s being particular for no reason. He finally pulls the belt off and tosses it away from him with extreme prejudice and malice aforethought. 

Patrick crowds in close to David, popping any safety bubble he’s put up for his own protection. “Fuck,” he mumbles against the spot just under David’s ear. “I want to.” He pulls back and looks David in the eye, suddenly serious. “David. I want to.”

“We can,” David repeats, because it’s all he can do in the face of all that sincerity. He’s going to need to take the reins soon if he doesn’t want this one-night thing to go off the rails. He blesses his tendency to overprepare and the resultant overnight bag he keeps in his car for emergencies. Some may say it’s blind hope, but right now he’s just focused on the results. He presses a hand against Patrick’s shoulder to claw back some space. He has to get his bag for this next part. Patrick makes a disagreeable noise and knocks David back down. He blankets David with his entire body; it’s flattering for all that they can’t really get good friction like this. “Let me get my bag, Patrick.”

“Make me,” Patrick says, then he catches David’s mouth in a kiss that’s almost painful. There’s more teeth than David honestly prefers, but the shuddery exhales that sound like they’re punched out of Patrick more than make up for it. 

So David makes him, rolling slightly to one side to get momentum then rolling hard to the other side and taking Patrick with him. Patrick lets out a yelp and blinks up at David, dazed, once his back meets the mattress. David takes advantage of Patrick’s surprise to grab a bottle of lube and a few condoms. Patrick’s hands pull at his arms and waist until David’s back on top. He tries to shift his weight back onto his heels and off of Patrick, because that’s not a part of his vision, but Patrick whines and pulls him until he tips forward. The bottle and foil packs scatter on the duvet and Patrick’s elbows trap David tight against him. Too close to even kiss him. 

But David has a plan that he wants to see through, so his left hand quests across the bed for the lube while his right works at the button of Patrick’s jeans. He does admirably, if he says so himself, even with the limited space. Once he’s popped the button, Patrick is much more amenable to be arranged into a new position. David must trip a secret wire or something once he does get a hand around Patrick’s dick because his sloppy little mouth opens and filth spills out. Not the kind of filth that David tends to, but sweetly innocent phrases that are somehow scorching. David could let himself drown under a litany of “I can’t believe you” and “that feels so good” if he’s not careful.

He focuses instead on getting his own pants off; Patrick’s canting his hips up and moaning which means there isn’t much time for what David wants to do next. He grabs for the lube and reaches back to get himself open and ready. It takes Patrick a minute to get with the program, but once he does his head drops back down against the mattress and he lifts up, rutting against David’s hip in earnest now. 

“David, David, that’s so hot, holy shit.”

And that’ll have to be enough prep, because David can’t go another second without Patrick inside him. He lifts up for just long enough to help Patrick slide a condom on, then gets his legs arranged just right and holds Patrick’s cock in place while he sinks down millimeter by millimeter. Patrick’s surprisingly sailor-esque mouth drops open and he pushes up onto his elbows. Something is happening on his forehead, some creasing thing, but David can’t focus on that. He finds a rhythm fast and revels in the way Patrick says “fuck” in time with the snap of his hips. 

“Let me.” Patrick shifts his weight underneath David and lifts a hand to David’s cock. David all but throws the lube at him. Patrick takes the hint beautifully, popping the lid and covering his hand before getting his hand around David again. He doesn’t even stroke. He lets David set the pace for both of them, and David tosses his head back at the feeling. 

“Patrick, that’s so good,” David grits out. But Patrick’s refrain of reassurance has slowed, so he tilts his head forward to make sure he’s not—broken, or having a sudden crisis, or something. Instead, Patrick’s just watching David, eyes round and lips pulling down at the corners. It’s hard to see it as a frown, even if the shape is right. There’s something too warm about it. David can’t take it in for too long. 

He speeds up his thrusts instead. His thighs are going to be murder tomorrow, but it’ll be worth it to not think about _that_ anymore. 

“David, I’m going to—” The words are knocked loose from Patrick mere seconds later. 

“I want you to.” David catches his breath when Patrick comes, everything going taut and then loosening. The sight helps push him over his own edge, as does the heft of Patrick’s hand still warm against his cock. 

For a minute, everything is quiet. 

“God.” David wrinkles his nose. The dismount is not going to be graceful. “Can you?”

Patrick runs a hand down David’s side to his hip. David inhales; even after that, he doesn’t want Patrick to see or feel all of him. Patrick leaves his hand there, patient and contrary. The fucker is going to wait David out. “Can I what?”

“You’re impossible.” David exhales. He lifts a knee and pats at Patrick’s side to encourage him to move. 

Patrick sits up, then winces. “I’m just,” he looks at his lap, “going to deal with this. So fast. It’s—I’ll just be gone for one second.”

“I would hope you’d be a little more careful than that,” David says. Then he winces. Maybe too soon to get pedantic. 

But Patrick smiles another earth-cracking smile that David can’t look at for fear of fuzzy spots appearing behind his eyes. He stands up and kind of shuffles to the bathroom, then closes the door behind him.

It’s more than a second until he’s back, but not much more. He drops back down on the bed and tugs on David’s shoulder until he sits back against the pillows next to Patrick.

David swallows. “These sheets really are terrible,” he says, because he can’t think of anything else. His stomach swoops and does something totally new and almost certainly unrelated to the mozzarella sticks when Patrick grabs for his foot. Strong hands pull David’s foot into Patrick’s lap and trace the jut of his ankle over and over. It’s horrible and David doesn’t know how he ever lived without it.

Patrick drops his head onto David’s shoulder and laughs. He sobers quickly, squaring his shoulders and straightening his spine when he turns to face David. “We should—”

And David can’t take it. He can’t listen to Patrick follow the one-night script. He doesn’t trust himself not to say something wrong, or to accidentally rewind the progress—progress?—they made tonight. “I get it,” he says quickly. “Totally get it. I should, um. I should go.” He unbends his knee, pulls his foot free of Patrick’s hands, and leans off the bed to pick up his underwear. 

“What?”

“Totally get it,” David repeats, forcing himself to keep his voice light. “It’s...we both had a tough night and this was really lovely and very fun, but you,” he clears his throat. “I get it.”

Patrick watches him get out of bed to slide his boxer briefs on and walk the length of the room for the rest of his clothes. He pops into the bathroom to, um, freshen up and get dressed, and he texts Stevie as soon as the door shuts behind him. 

Stevie  
  
**Today** 2:37 AM  
David: Can you please come pick me up  
  
Stevie: What? No you know the rules  
  
Stevie: What if I’m still on my date?  
  
David: Are you still on your date? Because I will call Ray if I have to   
  
Stevie: Fuck okay I can be there in an hour are you still at Mavericks  
  


David texts her the motel’s address and takes a deep breath. “Okay,” he mutters. “Okay, okay.” He opens the bathroom door and sees Patrick still sitting naked on the bed. He’s pulled the sheets up to cover himself, at least. “So, my ride’s about to be here,” he says brightly. 

“David, you live an hour away.” Patrick is far too reasonable; it’s much kinder for hookups to do a whole no-questions-asked thing afterward. “Do you—you would have had to call them before we even—you know what? That’s fine.” He smiles, and it’s trembly. David’s heart goes out to him. The early days are very emotional. He’ll even his keel soon enough. 

“Have a good night, Patrick. Or, um, I guess a good morning?” Sincerity still rankles when he bothers to use it. How do people do this all the time? But it seems like Patrick needs it, and so it’s not a waste. “Either way. This was, um. You were. Really good.” David swallows. “So, bye.”

He’s out the door fast, and for the second time that night he pretends he doesn’t hear Patrick calling after him. He elects to wait by the front desk for Stevie to show up. When he sees headlights go bright and then navigate away from the motel and back onto the road, he lets out a sigh he didn’t realize he was holding in.

One hour, he decides. He’ll give himself one hour to wallow in the knowledge that Patrick wouldn’t want more with him if he offered. He meant it when he said that he wasn’t Patrick’s type, and he still thinks he’s right. But as for Patrick not being his type, he may have spoken too quickly. 


	3. No one'll treat you half as nice, I only cheated on you twice

Patrick sighs into his patty melt. This all would have been so much easier if he had managed to get David’s phone number before he bolted. He shoves a fry into his mouth because two dramatic sighs in less than a minute is a sign of weakness he doesn’t want to let loose in such a public place. He should know—he’s already learned way more than he cares to about some person named Eric’s manga plot points and an older couple’s decision to open up their marriage. Again.

Once again, he toys with the idea of stopping by the motel. Ray said that David’s almost always there, but Patrick doesn’t want to spook David. More than he already has, apparently.

“Twyla,” he hears in a voice that’s been saying _I get it_ in his head on repeat for five days now, “settle an argument for us.”

Patrick can practically feel his ears perk up. The wave of excitement, maybe, or relief at seeing David is quickly overpowered by horror. It’s laundry day, and he’d spilled tea down the front of his last clean blue button-down that morning at breakfast. Ray had offered up a branded polo once again, a brilliant red striped with white. He looks like Where’s Waldo gone golfing. He sinks lower in his booth, cursing the multiple decisions he could have made differently to avoid this precise situation.

“I don’t know, David,” Twyla says carefully. If Patrick can hear them this well, then he’s too close. But getting up would actually be more suspicious, so he settles in and suffers. Twyla keeps talking: “The last time I did that, you didn’t talk to me for two days.”

A shorter woman in a purple flannel with long, dark hair scoffs. “Don’t blame yourself, Twy. Just because David pouts doesn’t mean you weren’t right.”

“I think what Stevie’s trying to say is that we both value your opinion,” David says. He leans forward against the counter. “And we would love to know your thoughts on new towels.”

Twyla nods. “For full disclosure I should tell you that Stevie bought me a bottle of wine yesterday in case you came in about this.”

“Treachery.” David turns on the person who must be Stevie. “Buying off our tiebreaker. I should win based on your subterfuge alone.”

“Maybe there’s someone else here we can press into service,” Stevie says. When Patrick dares to look, she’s staring at him.

David turns too, and he freezes when he sees Patrick.

Patrick elects not to whimper at the sharp look in Stevie’s eye and the terror in David’s. He’s pretty sure he looks terrified too; he hasn’t had a night as right as the one he shared with David or felt as off-kilter as he does now maybe ever before. And it’s not like there isn’t competition. “Hi,” he manages. “What’s this about towels?”

David shakes his head. “I don’t know that I trust your taste,” he says. The teasing is familiar. It makes Patrick think of mozzarella sticks, cheesecake, and leaning in close so that David could hear him at the bar. “I know I’ve made fun of your clothes before, and honestly, I apologize. I didn’t realize how hopeless your day-to-day looks were when I made fun of your date clothes. The button-ups are a huge step in the right direction.”

Patrick pushes down—the other stuff. The stuff that David is apparently not even thinking about anymore. “I’m actually going to need to swear you both to secrecy about this outfit.”

Stevie snorts. “My silence is very hard to earn,” she says. “Fortunately for you, it is very easy to buy. Lunch, David?” She slides into the booth and tugs David down after her.

David clears his throat. “I don’t think that Patrick—”

“Wants us to tell anyone?” Stevie sighs like David’s being purposefully obtuse. “That’s why he’s going to treat us to lunch. I think I’ll have the mac and cheese.”

“Ooh.” David grabs for a menu. “Did George ever stop using Kraft Singles for that? Because there was plastic in mine last time, but the rest of it was good.”

Patrick is woefully lost. But David seems surprisingly comfortable. He tries to match that energy. “Please don’t get food that’s cooked in plastic.”

“Lots of rules from someone who wants a vow of silence,” David says. His eyebrows do something...apologetic? Can eyebrows do that?

“I don’t know why you’re bothering,” Stevie says. “David’s historically very bad at keeping things to himself.”

David sniffs and fiddles with the salt shaker. “I’ll have you know that I’ve never once violated an NDA.”

Patrick can’t tell if he’s joking. Stevie isn’t laughing, but he senses that that doesn’t mean much. “I’m going to get a smoothie,” Stevie decides. “David?”

He shakes his head. Stevie nudges him to stand so that she can go place their order at the counter. David slides back into the booth and lifts his chin slightly. “So. Hi.”

Patrick swallows. Just the two of them for now, then. “Hi.”

“How, um. How are you?” Patrick watches David talk, the way that his lips purse and contort before he speaks. He wonders what David’s not saying.

“David.” Patrick takes a breath, gearing himself up for a conversation that won’t be easy. “We should really—”

“We really don’t have to,” David says. “I don’t have a lot of friends here? Or if not friends, then just, like, people that I can tolerate for extended periods of time.”

Oh. Oh, David. A swell of something that he learned through years of dinners being asked questions by his parents and searching for the correct answers even if there weren’t any required catches in the back of his throat. Patrick nods. He can work with being David’s friend. Or friend-like figure. They still poke at each other enough that it would be a stretch to call them friends, probably. “I get it. And, just so we’re clear, I also don’t have many friends here. Don’t get me wrong, Ray loves to chat, but I’ve been pretty busy. It’d be nice. To be people who tolerate each other.”

David smiles, but his mouth doesn’t open. Patrick’s never met someone whose smile exists around their eyes before.

Stevie drops back into their booth. “George said his success rate for getting the plastic off is much better now. I ordered us both mac and cheese.”

Patrick tries to question David and Stevie’s life choices privately. “If you two are both on lunch, is there anyone at the motel?” He thinks back to Ray’s narration of all the business owners in town. “It’s just the two of you who work there, right?”

“Technically, Roland is helping out right now.” Stevie takes a sip of her violently purple drink.

Patrick raises his eyebrows, alarmed. “Right now?”

“Oh my god,” Stevie says.

“We have some self-preservation, thanks,” David adds.

“Oh, good.” Patrick nods as Twyla drops two bowls of pasta, water for David, and a smoothie for Stevie on the table. “Didn’t want to hear about the place going up in flames.”

“To hear Roland tell it, he’s actually quite good with fire. And...wax?” David shudders. “I try very hard not to connect with his stories, but he’s persistent.”

Stevie gestures toward David like a salesperson at a used car lot. All show. “This is the person you’re asking to keep a secret,” she intones.

“Hey! I already told you about my NDA success rate.”

“One NDA isn’t that hard, though,” Stevie says. “Especially when you’re running in different circles now.”

David pats her shoulder condescendingly. “It’s adorable that you think there’s only one NDA.”

“Is this really a conversation you want to have here?” Patrick pitches his voice just above a whisper. “People always seem to hear me here.”

“Eh, it all comes out in a town this small anyway,” David says.

Stevie nods her agreement. “Best to just get it over with, unless you’re breaking up or making up.”

“Yeah, I can’t imagine a relationship talk going well here,” Patrick says.

David sniffs. “I’ll have you know that I have now conducted two very successful DTRs in this very cafe, so.”

“Oh, my apologies,” Patrick slips into the teasing with which he’s familiar. It only pinches at him a little. “And who, may I ask, was the other lucky participant?”

Stevie shakes her head. “That’s not important.”

* * *

“David?”

David contemplates ducking into the general store’s employees-only bathroom to avoid Jocelyn’s exuberance, but he’s never been one to shy away from an awkward situation. Best to charge forward, even if he’s doing so without Stevie as a safety net. And also that bathroom is probably diseased. He doesn’t want to catch the tacky. Despite the new ownership, the store is just as offensive to his senses as it’s always been.

“Still thinking about the quilted? I thought we’d already had this discussion.”

David takes a step away from the toilet paper. This keeps happening to him. “That’s not—”

“Anyway, David, I wanted to know if I could pick your brain about something.”

“If this is about your sweater, I do have some opinions.” David eyes the kitten waving hello. Soon, with any luck, he’ll be waving goodbye to that smiley cat.

“No, what about my—you know what? Never mind. I wanted to talk to you about asbestos.”

“I’m generally against it?”

“That makes this next part easier,” Jocelyn barrels on undeterred. “We’re having our annual fundraiser in a few weeks. Asbestos Fest. You wouldn’t believe how much asbestos they hid in this old town. I mean, in town hall alone, it’s practically—”

“Is there a reason we’re talking about poison in buildings I never enter?” David interrupts. He always feels kind of bad when he’s rude to Jocelyn. It’s weird, because he’s not more rude to her than he used to be to baristas or gallery patrons. He’s less rude, on the whole, but he still feels sort of sick to his stomach when he says those things.

“We usually have a little show and sell tickets.” Jocelyn grabs the sleeve of David’s sweater. He can feel the knit growing misshapen, but he just lets himself be pulled. Best to mitigate the damage. “And I was hoping that you would.”

“That I would what? Buy a ticket?” David counts the days left in the month in his head. He’s on a budget now that his dad isn’t dealing with the cafe bill, and he was actually hoping to treat Stevie to breakfast next week to celebrate their first year working together. If they make it that long, that is. Stevie was making fun of the loofahs he backordered yesterday and it was all he could do not to strangle her. “How much are they? If I go, then Stevie has to go, because I wouldn’t...want her to miss it.”

“I was actually hoping you would plan it.”

“Oh,” David says, taken aback. “That’s not what I was looking for.”

“It’s what I was looking for,” Jocelyn says patiently. “I know it’s been—you’ve had some time, since your parents left. It’s been a while. Roland was saying yesterday that he hasn’t heard from Johnny in two weeks, and I don’t know if it’s anything like that for you. I mean, I would hope that Moira would—”

“I actually have to get going,” David hears himself saying. Anything to end this conversation and keep the fact that his dad called Roland more recently than him bottled up. “I have a date.”

Jocelyn is too excited by this news. It would be offensive if it wasn’t the smallest bit sweet. “That’s wonderful, David,” she enthuses. “Where are you meeting them?”

“Elmdale,” he says. He can talk about this. This is easier to talk about. “Maverick’s? Stevie picked it.”

“Oh, I love that place,” Jocelyn says. David pushes down the contrary part of him that now wants to never go back. “We go there sometimes when we need to get out of town. It’s great when we do _Julie & Julia._”

“When you _what_?”

“You know, there’s just something about a good Meryl Streep vehicle that gets me—”

“Okay. I’ve seen that movie, and how would that even—I don’t want to know. I don’t want any of that.”

“Try the nachos.” Jocelyn pats David’s arm. “That always gets us going. Great for setting the mood.”

David doesn’t gag, but it takes a superhuman effort. “Julia Child never had a recipe for that, though.”

Jocelyn opens her mouth to respond, but David holds up a hand. “I remembered wrong. She totally did. Julia Child’s...nachos. Mm hm. Good choice. I’ll have to try that. Sometime.”

Jocelyn reaches behind David and grabs a bag of tortilla chips. She shrugs when David tilts his head. “Now that you got me thinking about it—”

“You were the one who brought it up!” David rubs at his temple. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’d rather talk about asbestos. When did you say the event was?”

Jocelyn grins and pulls up the calendar on her phone. David won’t have time to moodboard to the extent that will allow him to proudly attach his name to this event, but he’ll make do. Anything to stop talking about Meryl Streep.

* * *

“So what’s the name tonight?”

“Why does it matter?” Patrick accepts the drink David presses into his hand. David said something about guessing his drink, and Patrick’s content to let him try. “No matter what you say, you can’t really tell what someone’s like just by their name.”

“Shows what you know.” David squeezes his lime wedge into his glass. He’s drinking seltzer again because he said that Stevie has a thing of her own tonight and won’t be able to pick him up, and the last time he called an Uber he waited half an hour for Ray to show up and talk his ear off all the way back to the motel. “You definitely fit your name.”

“And what exactly does my name tell you about me?” He asks, curious.

“Historically, I am very bad about answering these kinds of questions. When it’s you, at least.”

“Are you saying I fluster you? Do you find me flustering?”

“That’s something only a Patrick would say.”

“Well, the name tonight is Sebastien. Spelled kind of funny, but Ray met him at a photography thing? Ray called it a meeting of the minds, but I think they were just trading used equipment.”

David’s face has gone white. “Sebastien. That’s—wow. Here’s a question: what’s his last name?”

“Something about water?” Patrick frowns and tries to remember. “I know Ray told me.”

“If I said Raine,” David says carefully.

Patrick snaps his fingers. “That’s it.”

David nods. Then he keeps nodding, head bobbing back and forth like he’s not really in control of it. “Great.” Patrick wants to grab his shoulders and shake him out of this movement he’s stuck in, but they’re not really there. “That’s just great.”

“So I’m sensing some hesitation.” Patrick tries to cut through whatever David’s disappeared into in his head. “Anything I should know?”

“I, um.” David signals the bartender and asks for a lemon drop shot before turning his attention back on Patrick. “I dated Sebastien.”

“Oh,” Patrick says faintly. “Well, it’s a small town.”

“That’s the thing. He’s not from here. We dated in New York. He still technically lives in New York.”

“But he’s here?” Patrick tries valiantly to keep up, but David’s talking more to himself than anyone else.

David shrugs, downs the shot, and asks for another. “I know you think I’m silly and flighty and picky and probably, like, a smidge pathetic, but—”

“I don’t think that.” Patrick says quickly. Fuck, is that really what David expects of him? “God, David, I don’t. I wouldn’t think that.”

“Well, that’s,” David signals again for a new drink, but Patrick grabs his hand and asks for two glasses of water instead. “That’s not the point. The point is, um, clear boundaries?”

“Boundaries?” Patrick pushes both waters toward David when the bartender drops them off.

Thankfully, David’s suggestible in this state. He takes a long sip before he answers Patrick’s question. “Boundaries. Make it clear if it’s not an open relationship. Or if it is. Just...you’re going to want to be clear.”

Patrick tries to smooth his own ruffled feathers. It probably comes from a caring place, but David’s really overstepping here. “And who are you meeting?”

“I’m meeting Jake, and it’s not so much a first date as a pregame.”

"Foul ball you don't get, but pregame makes sense to you?"

David shrugs. “Some of these words speak my language. Why are you asking, anyway?”

“Oh, you know.” Patrick keeps his voice as pleasant as he can. “So I can tell you when to stop using condoms, or something.”

“Okay.” David pushes off of the bar and stands up. “You know what? Have a good time.”

“Where are you going?” Patrick asks. “This is where you go to wait.”

David waves a hand behind him as he disappears in the direction of the bathroom.

When Mandy waves Patrick over to meet Sebastien, who’s wearing a sweater that maybe looked like a sepia-toned version of David’s own before an unholy amount of wear and tear, he spares only a second to check if David’s come out of the bathroom yet.

When they get to the table, Patrick sees that David made it out after all, though he’s sitting at the table alone. There’s a second drink on the other side, though he hasn’t yet seen the person it belongs to.

“David,” Sebastien murmurs from behind Patrick. “Isn’t this something.” He comes around Patrick and toward David’s booth, then grabs both sides of David’s face.

“Okay.” David’s voice is flat and his features, though gorgeous, twist into discomfort between Sebastien’s hands.

“Whoa, okay,” Patrick says.

Sebastien steps back and drops his hands. “Of all places,” he muses. “I had heard that your family had clawed their way back into the public consciousness, but that you elected to stay in obscurity.”

“That’s technically true, if a little oversimplified,” David manages. He’s still sitting, but he bounces his knee like he can’t decide whether he wants to face whatever Sebastien is or not.

Sebastien continues on as though David hasn’t spoken. “And I thought to myself, that doesn’t sound like the David I remember. Not the person who opened himself to my camera so consistently. So unabashedly.”

“This is really fun for me,” David mutters. He catches Patrick’s eye for a second, and there’s something like regret there. “But you should get back to your—”

“Oh, this is too much.” Sebastien hands Patrick his bag, then reaches inside and rifles through the worn leather pockets. “Something about the juxtaposition of baseless hope and inevitable despair. I can create something exceptional with this. I can’t believe this is where you are. Where you live.”

“Mm,” David says. He opens his mouth like he’s going to keep talking, but he doesn’t get a chance before Sebastien cuts across him.

“David, can I get you to sign a quick release? Standard terms, of course. But my agent’s been on me about this lately.”

“Can’t imagine why.” David’s eyebrows go up, then down, then up again. Patrick focuses on them. Much more fascinating to watch than his date.

Sebastien shrugs then pulls a camera out of the bag. “A silly little lawsuit. Joyce DeWhitt is a real shark about her likeness, especially when the story her face tells is that of a slow slide into obscurity. Best to be extraordinarily careful.”

“You’re being _careful,_ ” David says.

“I’m sure you’re aware that although you’re wearing the same clothes, we’ve whiled away years since our last meeting and—”

“I’m sorry,” David holds up a finger. “I said that wrong. _You’re_ being careful?”

“I can see how your bitterness wears on you, David.” Sebastien brushes a thumb under one of David’s eyes with one hand while the other balances his camera, which might be the only unblemished thing Sebastien has. “And I’d be willing to explore that.”

Patrick should be more upset that David’s getting hit on by his date.

“You’re on a date.” David’s jaw clenches and he tears his gaze away from Sebastien. When he catches Patrick’s eye, he mouths _sorry,_ as though any of this is his fault.

“There’s a provincial romanticism to all this that’s just,” Sebastien lowers the camera and waves a hand, “terrifying and important.”

“Terrifying,” David repeats. There’s something detached about him, like he and Sebastien are having a competition about who cares the least. To Patrick’s mind, Sebastien’s probably winning. “I can’t tell you how much I’m thrilled with that adjective.”

Patrick drops the bag into the booth and crosses his arms. “Not that I’m not enjoying this,” he says flatly, “but I think you should probably go, Sebastien.”

“One moment, Peter.” Sebastien waves him off.

And that stings, even though it shouldn’t. Despite all the evidence that Sebastien is horrible, just like David said he was, it still hurts to be overlooked so openly. “That’s not—”

“Okay,” David stands up. “I see someone walking in that I should—I’m just going to go. Sebastien, it was truly an experience to see you again.”

David meets Patrick’s eye and then tilts his head toward the bar. Patrick appreciates the support but doesn’t think he’ll stick around long enough to need it.

“So sorry for the delay,” Sebastien says, shaking off the slime as he sets the camera on the corner of the table. The lens is aimed over Patrick’s shoulder toward the bar.

“Stop.” Patrick’s proud of his voice for holding firm. He wishes he could text David and warn him. It’s a new feeling.

“Stop what?” Sebastien asks lightly. “If this is some sort of jealousy thing, I can work that into its own piece. Envy, maybe. And insignificance. Could be quite powerful.”

Patrick bites back the question he wants to ask about whether this ever actually works and instead covers the lens with his palm. “I don’t know what rules you’re used to playing by, but this is gross.”

Sebastien tuts and pulls his camera away from Patrick’s hand. “Such narrowness of mind here. Or perhaps I was right about the envy. Don’t fret, Peter. On any other day, I would love to see through this interactive performance art moment and take Polaroids of you naked, but needs must.”

Patrick leaves Sebastien and the booth behind to wave David down at the bar. There are three full shot glasses in front of him and one’s in his hand—nope, that’s down the hatch.

“Sorry,” David says before Patrick reaches him. “That sucked, I should have—”

“It’s not you at all. I can’t believe that he would do that.”

“We can’t hold Sebastien to human standards,” David says. “That way leads only to disappointment. And litigation, in my experience, but your mileage may vary.”

“He’s trying for stealth shots,” Patrick says. “That’s why I came over.”

David’s entire face rejects that idea. “Gross. He’s gross.” He takes another shot.

“David,” Patrick says patiently. “Maybe we get Sebastien to leave and then finish our drinks?”

“Hang on,” David says. He lifts himself off of his barstool and heads for the hostess stand. He has a brief conversation that’s not lacking in hand gestures and a few laughs, even, which Patrick can’t get his head around, then comes back to Patrick and his remaining shots.

“Is that—do we need to do anything else?”

David looks at him. Patrick doesn’t know what he’s looking for, but he nods like he’s found it. “I’ve got it. Mandy’s having her manager ask him to leave. And if he’s really so worried about lawsuits after Joyce DeWhitt, I’ll be fine.” He slides the last drink over to Patrick.

This might as well happen. It’s stunningly, cloyingly sweet, and he can’t stop himself from making a face.

“Am I safe in saying that polar bear shots aren’t your thing?” David asks. His smile fades slightly when his phone vibrates.

“Your pregame?” Patrick asks.

But David shakes his head. “I postponed that. Wasn’t really in the right place.”

“Sorry that he...sorry this happened to you.”

David clears his throat. “I’m going to, um. Bathroom. You can—it’s fine if you have to go. Or if you want to go. But I’ll come back if not.”

“Were you going to stay in there if I said no?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Patrick nods. “I’ll stay. I’d hate for you to still be sitting in that bathroom when I showed up next week.”

“That’s disgusting,” David says, but he still goes.

* * *

“Okay,” David says later. “Enough about Sebastien. He would just thrill to know how much we’re talking about him, and I won’t give him that win even in theory. Tell me about one of your exes so I feel less like an idiot.”

Patrick fiddles with the label on his bottle. “I don’t—”

“Oh,” David says quickly. “I didn’t mean to pressure, or, um. If there’s not. You know what? Never mind. We can keep talking about Sebastien. Did I tell you the open relationship part?”

Patrick sniffs. “It’s fine. It’s really fine. I have just the one ex, really. On and off forever.”

David nods but doesn’t say anything else. The pause goes on just long enough for Patrick to start talking. Like he didn’t realize how much he needed the space to talk about Rachel until David gave it to him. The words come easy after the floodgates open. He tells David how they got together in high school when all of their friends in the boys’ and girls’ schools started pairing off. How it always seemed easier than the alternative of finding a new person to date, one who he didn’t already know everything about. How it was fine—all of it—and how he thought that love was just overhyped. Something people blew out of proportion or wrote purple prose about. He thought everyone felt the same as he felt. How he decided to leave after they met with Brian and Delia, their newlywed friends, and he realized that it wasn’t an act. It wasn’t a put-on. That level of love was possible, and he didn’t have it. How he came to Schitt’s Creek on a whim after turning in an effective-immediately resignation and methodically dismantling every bridge he could think to so that he wouldn’t go back. How Rachel came to town last month and left without a fiancé but with a new body wash. How they weren’t talking yet. How he had come out to his parents on the heels of Rachel’s visit after she’d dropped hints about their involvement in her decision to come in the first place.

“That’s a lot,” David says at the end, after all those words are finally out. He’s so out of his depth here. “But you got through it.”

Patrick runs a hand through his hair. “And you got through Sebastien,” he adds.

But David shakes his head. “If you recall, we both got through that. Though I am sorry that you had a bad date. Where did you say Ray found him?”

“Some photography equipment resale group?”

David bites back the smile that grows immediately at the thought. “Thank you,” he says. “Seriously, you don’t know how happy that news makes me.”

“Oh?”

“Once, he took me to a consignment store for some, and I quote, ‘bleak, poignant shots of consumerism in decline’ and I bought a bracelet. He teased me for, like, a month about being too obtuse to grasp the critique.”

“Gross.” Patrick seems more grateful with every tidbit that the date was cut short. “Yeah, I’m not too broken up about missing out.”

“Still, though,” David sighs. Maybe the polar bear shots are catching up with him. “Here we both are again.”

“His loss,” Patrick says definitively. Like he means it. David’s starting to think that Patrick always means what he says.

He has to cut the sincerity. He’ll die otherwise. “How do I know you’re not just talking about you? After all, he blew his chance there, too.”

Patrick tries to—wink? It could be a wink. It maybe meets all the technical requirements, but it’s more like a twitch than anything else. “Would I do something like that?”

“Yes,” David says immediately.

“Fair.” Patrick pulls out his wallet and grabs for David’s receipt. David puts his hand out to stop him, but he’s too late—damn the reflexes Patrick earned in all his sports performances—and Patrick hands off both their receipts and his card to the server. “But in this case, I’ll just say that we can both do better.”

“Hm.” David squeezes his hands into fists so he doesn’t do anything stupid or irrevocable with them. “I’ll allow it.”


	4. Are you ever gonna find the one?

Patrick drains the last of his tea before counting out a tip and setting it under his empty mug. “Twyla, can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot, Patrick.” Twyla leans her hip against the counter. “Is this about the tea? Because I know you asked for earl grey but we just have the one grab bag back there.”

“That’s not it.” Patrick makes a mental note to bring a box of Twinings with him next time. “I was wondering if you were working tonight.”

“Oh,” Twyla says. “Patrick, you know that I think you’re, just, great, but I’ve been in a position like this before with a friend, and I don’t think that David—”

“What?” Patrick asks. “No. Oh my god, no. I just wanted to know if you wanted to watch a movie or get a drink or something. I don’t really have that many friends. Here.” He files the David comment away somewhere he can’t access it.

Twyla laughs, apparently relieved. “That sounds great. I’m not really in the mood to go to the Wobbly Elm, but we could do something else.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Hm.” Twyla squints, thinking. “We could do a jewelry swap?”

* * *

David  
  
**Today** 2:14 PM  
Patrick: Which sounds better, a navy blue sweater or a pale blue button-up?  
  
**David:** Oh thank god it’s about time you asked  
  
**David:** Scoop or v neck sweater  
  
Patrick: Does it matter?  
  
**David:** You make a compelling point  
  
**David:** Sweater  
  
Patrick: I’ll take it under advisement. Want help picking your outfit?  
  
**David:** That’s okay I’m sure you’re busy  
  
Patrick: Nope, free as a bird.   
  
**David:** So sorry I’m going through a tunnel  
  


* * *

“I can’t talk right now.”

“Now, is that any way to greet your mummy?” Even over the phone, his mother’s voice is just as crisp and elegant as he remembers. But he’s struck for a second by the way he’s forgotten the specific cadence and tone.

“I really am busy,” David says. He toys with the idea of cancelling. Stevie might even understand if he explained that his mom called. But then she’d know how much of a mess he still is about this, and it’s been months. It’s bad enough that she brought him breakfast the day after everyone left and helped him move all of his sweaters into the room he used to share with Alexis. Before she helped him move out, that is. “Are you—can I call you later?”

“These time differences are so tiresome.” Moira sighs over the phone. “And I took the most delightful little downer with my lunch, so I only have a few more waking hours left if I’m lucky.”

David pushes the worry down. His dad’s there, so he can take care of her. “Are you okay? What’s happening?” She wouldn’t call just to chat if history is any guide.

“Can a mother not confabulate with her favorite child?”

David resolves not to mention this call to Alexis. “Um, of course she can. _You_ usually don’t, though.”

“Tell me about the shy and retiring little hamlet in which you’ve chosen to repose.” David can practically feel Moira waving off his protests.

“The town’s the same.” David casts about for a new topic. “I’m helping Jocelyn with Asbestos Fest. We’re still searching for a headliner.” He’s not going to ask her to come. He doesn’t really want to hear her excuse.

"I applaud your determination to restore asbestos to that community,” Moira drawls. “It's not just for the big city anymore.”

He’s not going to explain asbestos to his mom. She doesn’t actually care. “Jocelyn says hi.” It feels pathetic, almost, to say something like that to television’s Moira Rose. It’s too...small.

“Felicitations to Jocelyn.” Moira sounds bored.

“Why’re you calling?” David asks. He probably doesn’t have time for whatever this is. “I’m about to be late.”

“Always leave them wanting more,” Moira says sagely.

“I don’t think that really works. For me.”

“Well, from what I know of your romantic history, it’s been one bungle after another.” His mom’s really gearing up for something, so David rushes to cut her off before she can delve any further into his string of bad luck. That’s not a thing he needs right now.

“I have to go, mom.”

“Wait,” Moira says. “I have a query, and I can’t be expected to keep time until you’re free like some kind of metronome.”

“What.”

“I fear that you’ve absconded with one of my wigs.”

David almost throws up his hands but stops before he flings the phone against the window of his car. “Why would I do that?”

“How should I know what price you could fetch for my headpieces?” Moira asks, indignant.

“First of all, I don’t want whatever wig it is you think I took.” David takes a centering breath. “Also, there’s no way you left any behind. You made me triple-check your spreadsheet when you were moving out.”

“Hm.” David can practically hear his mom searching for a new accusation.

“Is there anything else?” He knows there won’t be.

“If you find one of my girls?”

“You’re my first call. Get horizontal. Find a pillow, if you can,” David advises.

* * *

"I thought we said this didn't work last time."

"We did," Patrick nods like he's on the same page, even though his presence here means they are clearly not even in the same book. "We did say that."

"And yet you're here again," David says. "Did we get our signals crossed?"

"I don't remember agreeing to switch restaurants." Patrick waves down the bartender. "Another whiskey sour for me, and a—soda water?—soda water with lime for my friend."

"Friend. That's an unwarranted step up." David crosses his arms but slides into the seat next to Patrick at the bar.

Patrick hums and chooses not to remind David that he actually said it first. "Well, ‘man who heckled me before my first date in a year and then slept with me a week later’ takes too long to say. Didn't want to waste the bartender's time."

"I'm just saying, I thought we agreed—"

Patrick cuts David off again. "We didn't agree on anything. Did you want to agree to something? I haven't found food better than moderately edible around here yet, but I'm open to suggestions if you want me to go somewhere else."

"I don't want to subject you to many of the establishments around here," David says begrudgingly. "Even you don't deserve that."

"How magnanimous of you." David will one day keep his foot out of his mouth. Patrick’s almost reassured to know with certainty that it won't be today.

David waves him off, though. “You make me sound so—that’s not what I meant.”

“It’s frankly a miracle that you’re looking for dates and not on some kind of speaking circuit.” Patrick slides David’s drink toward him.

“Okay, that’s enough,” David says. “If I’m going to be negged by someone, I at least want them to be the person buying my drink.”

“Do you really think I’ve been negging you?”

“Gently negging,” David allows, “but still.”

“You told me I wasn’t your type within ten minutes of meeting, and now I’m negging you?”

“I apologized for that,” David says indignantly. “And it’s not like you were much nicer to me after that, if you’ll recall.”

“Point.” Patrick consciously forces his shoulders to relax from where they’re inching closer to his ears. “I apologized too.”

“That’s not what we’re talking about.” David squeezes the lime wedge into his glass. “We’re talking about how I’m supposed to carry on a conversation when you’re right there staring at me and probably laughing.”

“I’m so sorry that my presence is such a complete and total turnoff for you.”

“I didn’t say that,” David says. “Of course I didn’t say that. I’m not a total monster, despite the apparently awful impression I’m making here.”

“Okay.” Patrick nods. “We deal with this for tonight, but then next week we’ll be more clear?”

“Glad to know your hopes are so high for this date,” David says. “In a perfect world, you’re not here at all next week.”

“I could come here on a non-first-date date.”

“And I could kill Stevie and get out of this hellscape I’ve landed myself in,” David says. “We all make choices.”

“We’ll deal with overtime when we get out of regulation,” Patrick decides.

David’s nose wrinkles in that mix of frustration, disgust, and what looks to Patrick like a thrill at being in on the joke. “If we’re going to make it out of tonight alive, you’re going to have to shelve the sports. Save it for—what’s the name this week, anyway?”

“Ted? He said he’s a vet but changed the subject when I asked if he knew Miguel, so he might be lying about that. Maybe he works at a pet store.”

David coughs; his drink must have gone down the wrong pipe or something.

“Everything okay?” Patrick asks.

“Fine.” David waves him off quickly. “Ted, okay. Good for Ted. Yes, best to face me in the booths then. I know Ted, so I think he’ll be more comfortable this way.”

“You know Ted like you knew Sebastien?” Patrick feels the weight of what could have been pressing down hard for a second. It’s not altogether impossible that David could go out with Rachel, but the odds of David bumping up against his romantic history are almost laughably low.

“First of all, it’s impossible to _know_ Sebastien. Not even Sebastien really knows Sebastien. But also, no, god.” David holds up a hand and does what Patrick has now learned is a quick replay of what he’s said. “Not that Ted isn’t great. Ted is wonderful. Enjoy? Enjoy.”

And Patrick tries, he really does, but between the puns and the way Ted’s voice cracks when he asks David about his sister, he knows that it’s not going to happen. Seeing Ted chat up Heather, David’s date, in the parking lot outside after he leaves doesn’t help matters.

* * *

“It’s not that I’m not trying,” Patrick explains to David later. They’re leaning against his car in the parking lot, where they’ve been cycling through topics like goat cheese and the dueling vets of Schitt’s Creek for nearly an hour. David had shuddered at the mention of polar bear shots, and Patrick had shuddered at the eyebrow waggle they got from Mandy when they left together. “I didn’t realize how different it would be.”

David is big enough to admit that he’s confused. Now that he knows Patrick almost certainly won’t laugh at him, at least. Or, like, he might laugh but not in a mean way. “How different what would be?”

“This,” Patrick huffs. “Doing this again. Doing this now that I know my...preferences.”

“Ah,” David says. He hopes he can get away with silence again; it seemed to work when Patrick wanted to talk about his ex-fiancée last week.

His hopes are immediately dashed. “Was it like this for you?” Patrick asks. “I mean, when you came out. If you came out?” He bites his lip. “Forget I said anything. I don’t know what you, ah, use.”

“Pan,” David says, finally. “Pan is what I use. When I use a label.”

Patrick tilts his head. David can’t read him, which is terrifying and unsurprising in equal measure. All of his thoughts steal across his face unfiltered, but his track record for seeing the same in others is not astounding at the best of times. “I owe you an apology,” Patrick says, which breaks David out of the place his mind has taken him.

He can’t let this sentiment creep in and ruin whatever it is he’s managed to salvage from his horror show of a first impression. “For not letting me sit inside the car after I complained about the potential danger to my pants? While I agree that I’m objectively correct, I don’t take it personally.”

“For assuming,” Patrick persists. “I did that at first, and I shouldn’t have.”

“We don’t have to do this,” David says desperately. And then, because Patrick looks like he’s going to push: “This conversation is going to give me hives.”

“I really thought you could at least tolerate me a little by this point.”

“My standards are very high.”

“Oh, I’ve noticed.” Patrick bumps David’s shoulder with his own. “You’re pretty particular.”

“I’m not that—” David bites his lip. He kind of is, though, and he doesn’t want to lie to Patrick almost as much as he doesn’t want Patrick to think he’s silly.

“I don’t find you silly,” Patrick says, and wow, David does not want to know how much of his thought process he’s said out loud to this person. David can feel the weight of his regard as his eyes track over David’s sweater, his hair, his expression. “I find you fascinating.”

David sits up straighter and wiggles, but it’s dark so he doesn’t think Patrick sees.

“Before you say anything, you should know that I also find the black plague fascinating.” Patrick’s not smiling, but David’s almost sure that he’s joking. Maybe eighty-seven percent sure.

“Well, that makes sense,” David says agreeably. “All those rats.”

“Mm, lots of rats.”


	5. Worth a second glance

Patrick feels a flush tracking up his neck as Ken walks away. He clutches the slip of paper with Ken’s number on it triumphantly; he’s finally done it. The app has been fine for him, but it’s something different to have a three-dimensional person just jot down their three-dimensional phone number—except a number is actually two-dimensional—like it’s nothing and slide it into his hand with a wink. He can’t wait to call. Ray teases him for the rest of the afternoon about the stars in his eyes, but Patrick can’t get a cute fitted polo shirt and a shy smile out of his head.

* * *

“You’re popular today,” Stevie says when she walks past David to the break room behind the front desk.

“If that’s a dig at my social life, I’ll have you know that my friend was busy last night.” David takes another sip from his macchiato. He hates working the desk at night, but needs must. Stevie had a date last night with some motel reviewer who had come sniffing around, and David wanted to keep the grin that looks like it was shaken out of her on her face as long as possible.

“It’s a little sad that I’m your only friend.”

David weighs his options. If he says he has excellent taste, then Stevie might punch his arm. But if he makes fun of her before he’s sussed out how her date went, he might poke a bruise. He decides to risk a bruise of his own. “Well, I have exacting taste.”

“Is that why I got a call about a quote for new towels yesterday?” Stevie pokes her head out of the back and drops a postcard on the desk in front of him. “Because the answer is still no.”

He flips the card over; it’s from Wendy. She’s been really annoying about updating David on her choices lately. After he and Alexis got her that check, she took her husband and step-daughter on something of a world tour, though they’ve mostly stuck to the tropics. And she won’t say for certain if she dropped the husband or not. She’s been full of unsolicited advice ever since he let her know that he’s helping with the motel, but he stopped listening after she suggested complimentary condoms in every nightstand. The quality they’d have to sacrifice to keep up with demand is horrifying to even think about.

“So is she suing you for the rest of that money?” Stevie asks. “I always said that money made people ugly.”

“They’re in Hawaii now.” He shakes his head. “And for someone who’s benefiting from all that money, I would hold off on critiques about appearance.”

“Hey, I earned your investment with all that sentiment at Mutt’s barn.”

David swallows past the emotions that night stirs up in him even now, months later. God, he’s so tired. Stevie needs to finish clocking in so he can go home and go the fuck to sleep until the thought of his parents packing up mere hours after he split that check with them stings less or until Stevie can get a drink with him. “Unclear. Unclear if you’ve earned it.”

“What do you mean, unclear?”

David thinks about the way Stevie’s forehead creased with worry and concern that night six months earlier. His parents postponed their anniversary celebration and spent the night packing wigs and suits while Alexis scrolled through apartment listings in New York, so David squared his shoulders and met Stevie outside of the motel to drive to the barn party together. They didn’t say anything about why David was staying on the drive over, and David worked hard to distract himself with a woodworker and a clandestine kiss.

Still, Stevie had grabbed his arm a few hours in. Maybe she had caught on to how adrift he was feeling or maybe she was grateful to keep making fun of him where he could hear her, but she had asked, with surprising seriousness, if he knew that there were people here who loved him.

David blinked and said, “Even if my family said those kinds of things to each other, they’re only here for about ten more hours. So it’s less than comforting.”

Stevie didn’t let him get away with that then and she hasn’t let him get away with anything since. She chugged the rest of her glass and said, “I know all of you think you’re the center of the universe, but I wasn’t actually talking about them.”

David’s pulled out of his memory by a knock outside the door. Roland doesn’t wait for them to answer and instead just walks in, but the act of knocking is unfortunately still an improvement for him.

“Dave, Stevie.” Roland leans against the desk and drops a toolbox on the floor with a clatter. “Someone should really get on those hot water taps in your family’s old rooms.”

Stevie taps David’s shoulder reluctantly. Thank god she’s taking the lead on this one. “Roland, that’s what we hired you for. After you asked us to hire you.” A decision that they both regret; the minor repairs they brought Roland on for have turned into a major irritation.

“Right.” Roland nods. “I’m happy to hold the flashlight while we check on the hot water.”

“You can fix the hot water yourself, right?” David cuts in. Despite the call of his apartment, he won’t leave Stevie on her own with this. She didn’t bring coffee and god knows no one should ever drink what they offer the guests. At least not until they can scrape together enough for a decent machine. “Because if you can’t, then we really can’t afford to pay you _and_ a plumber.”

Roland scoffs and shifts from foot to foot. “You don’t need a plumber when you have me.”

Stevie picks up the proverbial baton. “Well, since we have you, can we have you go fix the hot water? We have that room booked for tonight.”

“Sure,” Roland says, though he doesn’t grab the box or leave the room. “Dave, have you heard from Johnny? I called him yesterday and he said he’d call when he could, but—”

David cuts in fast, because he doesn’t want to have this conversation with Stevie again, especially not in front of Roland. “I know my mom is doing a regional production,” he says. “And my dad is always really involved in her...process. He’s probably just busy.”

“Well, how did he sound last time you talked to him?” Roland asks. “Because to me, he was kind of short. Almost like he had something else he wanted to be doing.”

“I’m sure that’s not what it was.” Whenever his dad gets around to calling him, he’s going to kill him long-distance for putting him in the position of comforting Roland. If Roland tries to hug him, he’ll fly to Los Angeles and strangle his dad himself. It’s not like he has other holiday plans.

Stevie clears her throat. David winces reflexively at the pity he sees in her eyes. “Roland, we can talk more about that after those rooms have hot water,” she says firmly.

“I’m leaving too,” David says quickly. He bends to pick up Roland’s toolbox, a decision he regrets immediately because he can’t think of a single good reason for the handle to be sticky, and then opens the lobby door. “Stevie, see you tomorrow.”

“You have a date tonight,” Stevie calls after him.

He looks at Roland. “I hope to god she’s talking to you.”

* * *

“That’s a different shirt.”

Patrick tugs at the collar. He knew that David would say something, but it’s relatively positive so far. Not that it matters. David’s opinion doesn’t matter. It’s Ken’s opinion that he cares about tonight.

“Well, Sebastien looked right past me and Ted chatted up your date in the parking lot. Figured it was time to try something different.”

“Mm, well. Sebastien would never say it, but last I heard, he lives in his parents’ guesthouse and has food sent over for every meal. You’re probably right to limit the life changes you make based on his actions.”

Patrick nods. “So that’s a no to the shirt.”

“That’s not what I said, I don’t think.” David taps at the side of his glass with one finger. His eyes haven’t met Patrick’s yet tonight, still lingering around his (admittedly straining) buttons. He’s still not clear on whether green is a jewel tone, but David doesn’t seem to mind the color choice. “It’s a no to Sebastien, but I think the shirt passes muster. I’m a little offended I wasn’t consulted, is all.”

Patrick feels more bolstered by this reaction than he should. David isn’t Ken. He’s something all his own.

“Not that my approval matters here.” David winces. “I’m—I think you’re, um. I think you’ll get a good reaction is all I meant. I think you’re good.”

“That’s nice.” Patrick tries to keep his voice light as he checks the door again. Ken’s about to be running late, which is fine but Twyla assured Patrick that Ken was almost alarmingly punctual. He’s still a little fuzzy on the details of how Ken and Twyla know each other. Something about a second cousin and a joy ride on a four-wheeler, but Twyla had gotten morose about the ant farm that was destroyed in the ensuing carnage, so Patrick lost the thread.

“Any particular reason this date merits a new shirt?” David asks.

It’s a fair question, and Patrick’s honestly excited to show his hand. “I didn’t get this date on the app.”

“Oh?” David asks. “And Ray didn’t set it up?”

“That’s right.” Patrick wants to bounce his knee, but he knows how annoying that can be. Plus, it would knock against the bottom of the bar. “I met him at Ray’s when he dropped off his roommate for some business headshots. We got to talking.”

David puts his hands under his chin with a flourish. “Tell me everything.”

“There’s not too much to tell,” Patrick says. He ducks his head. The feeling of sharing this with David, an interested audience who seems to really want the best for him, has him lit up from the inside. He can’t make himself stop smiling. “It’s just...it felt really nice. To be, um. Pursued. Like that.”

There’s a wistful smile on David’s face. Patrick watches it get relegated to the side and hopes David doesn’t think he’s fooling anyone. “That sounds really great,” he says. “I hope the shirt pays off for you.”

“And you?” Patrick asks. He’s normally a much more considerate friend than this. There’s something about David, or about dating like this, or about talking to David about dating like this that has him much more willing to spew his feelings to anyone who asks. Luckily for him, only David seems particularly interested in asking. “Anyone you’d wear a special shirt for tonight?”

“I resent the implication that all of my shirts are not special,” David says primly. “But Stevie seemed weirdly excited about this date? Which is either very good or hilariously bad for me. And with her it’s a toss-up.” David crosses his legs on the stool and fiddles with the way the collar of his sweater sits.

Patrick wrinkles his nose. "Do you smell something?"

David pats at his neck, and then Patrick's looking at David’s neck, and that's its own thing. "Is it that bad? I got this leather moisturizer last week, but I think I used too much. But I couldn't very well wipe it off after I used it, and Roland made the lobby smell like patchouli today because he spilled his stupid meadow smoothie and the alternative of having to smell _that_ was worse, so I couldn't tell—”

“It’s fine,” Patrick says. He’s not going to laugh and tank David’s confidence. And honestly, there’s something about it that’s working. For David. And for David’s date.

He pulls up his text conversation with Ken. He hasn’t texted to say that he’s on his way, but that’s fine. Even if he said he would, it’s probably just because he forgot to press send before he got in the car.

* * *

David is making small talk with Grace about the Jazzagals and questioning Stevie’s taste—someone who would willingly join an acapella group doesn’t seem like a great match—when Grace asks him about his sweater. And not in the way he’s come to expect lately, the “did your grandma make it” or “how interesting” way that still makes him wrinkle his nose in disdain. No, she asks if he likes Dries Van Noten’s more recent collections. The skies may not actually open up and shine down on them, but it’s closer to that feeling than he’s gotten in a while.

He gears up to ask a potentially crucial question. “What are your thoughts on Neil Barrett?”

Grace smiles, and they’re off.

Because he’s been starved for good fashion conversation and because Grace is really fucking cute when she gets excited about neoprene, it takes him longer to notice that Ken still hasn’t showed up than it should. Patrick’s sitting at his table, still facing David, and when David finally makes eye contact with a question in his eyes, Patrick shrugs and tries for a smile. His tiny shirt pulls when his shoulders go up. David makes a face he hopes is sympathetic and lets Grace pull him back into a conversation about what his mom’s up to.

“How many solos did she steal from you?” David asks. He’s heard numbers that are upsetting but unsurprising from both Twyla and Jocelyn, so he’s prepared for anything.

“Honestly?” Grace leans in. “I don’t really like singing. I went to high school with Twyla—Stevie, too—and that girl could sell a polar bear snow.”

David covers his laugh with a hand. “Of course. I always wonder how that group has so many members.”

“Between Twyla and Jocelyn, most of us didn’t stand a chance.” Grace plays with the ends of her hair. “Though your mom brought vodka when she was campaigning for town council, so some rehearsals were better than others.”

“Of course she did.” David can’t think about his parents for too long or he’ll get morose. This date is going surprisingly well, and he doesn’t want to ruin it. “Tell me something else, though. Tell me something about you outside the world of the Jazzagals.”

Grace smiles and launches into a story about the production of _Spring Awakening_ she saw a few months back.

David continues to marvel at her taste, but he peeks past her for another check-in.

There’s a glass of what looks like whiskey in front of Patrick, and he’s poking at his phone, aggravation pushing his bottom lip out.

“Everything okay?” Grace asks. “Did you want to get dessert?”

“You know what?” David says. “I’m not in the mood, but if you want something, go for it.”

Grace declines, so David asks for the check. This feeling of a date going well is pretty foreign at this point. He’s not totally sure what to do next. “Um, could I—”

Grace holds out her hand. David extends his own, but Grace points at his phone instead. “I’m trying to give you my number,” she says teasingly. “We can talk about holding hands if you call me.”

“Sure,” David manages. “That sounds—sure.”

Patrick gets up and walks back to the bathroom. His shoulders hitch as he gets closer to the door, and something twists inside David.

“Can you excuse me?” he asks. “This was really lovely, but I have to go.”

“Of course,” Grace says. “I had a great time.”

“Me too,” David says, and he means it. He doesn’t know about another date, but this was—wow. She was great. He waves as she leaves and then turns to follow Patrick.

Patrick opens the bathroom door when David reaches it. His eyes—which are a little red—go wide, and then he hunches his shoulders.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” David would understand if he said no. Talking about being rejected is the worst. “Or not. You don’t have to.”

But of course Patrick wants to talk about it. “He texted me like ten minutes ago,” he says. “He said he had a thing with a guy he’s seeing? And that he was sorry?”

David winces, then tries to school his expression. “Yikes.” Fuck. That’s not right either.

“Who the hell would do something like that?” Patrick blows air out in a puff, an aborted _what._

David itches to pull Patrick in for a hug, which is terrifying. The thought nearly sends him on his own spiral, but it’s probably Patrick’s turn to take a selfish. He folds his arms instead. “I’m sorry that happened. To you. I mean, I’d be sorry if it happened to anyone generally, but I am also sorry that it happened to you. Um, specifically.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t do this anymore,” Patrick says. David pushes aside the indignance that Patrick could leave him alone here next week and focuses on what he’s saying. “I mean, two weeks ago my date kept trying to take pictures of you. And this week I can’t even get the guy to show up. Frankly, I’m worried about what I could inflict on the world if I try again.”

“Hey,” David fiddles with the cuff of his sweater. “His loss, right?”

Patrick smiles. It’s shaky and smaller than normal, but it’s there. David will take that as a win. When they get back to their tables, David slides in at Patrick’s. Best to make sure someone shows up for him tonight.

“Please.” David waves off Patrick’s attempt to grab the check and sticks it into the same folder as his own. “Stevie’s subsidizing all of these dates since they’re her fault in the first place.”

“And all you’re drinking is seltzer?”

“She’s paying me back in a manner of speaking,” David clarifies. “I’m amassing quite the collection of IOUs.”

“That’s certainly something.”

“Well,” David says. “If you ever need a ‘weed and pizza and no judgment re: the amount of either’ night, I might have a connection for that.”

“For the...weed?” Patrick asks.

David can feel the back of his neck warming. Once, just _once_ , he’d love for his brain to be half a step ahead of his mouth. “It’s—that’s one of the IOUs. From Stevie.”

“So I would have to do it with Stevie?” Patrick stirs his drink morosely. Can a person stir a drink like that? Patrick’s trying, at least. “I barely know Stevie.”

“I don’t—” David takes a centering breath. He will not allow Patrick to fluster him any more tonight. “You can do it with me. I was trying to be nice.”

“Thanks, David. That’s really good of you.”

David reaches for Patrick’s drink slowly, giving Patrick enough time to stop him if he chooses to. It’s probably doing more harm than good at this point. He doesn’t want Patrick getting morose and fatalistic about his own prospects. Then he pulls out his phone and pokes at Uber until he gets the text that Ray is on his way to pick Patrick up.

* * *

Patrick lets Ray suggest food on the way home (“So sorry, I sold all the soup!”), then falls into bed minutes after they finally get back to the house. The food in his stomach dulled the throbbing in his head, but it didn’t take his mind off of the gentleness in David’s eyes and hands when he passed Patrick a water and coaxed him into giving up his whiskey sour and into not thinking about Ken or his questionable choices anymore.

Just as he’s closing his eyes, he hears the clatter of his phone vibrating on the nightstand. He huffs and rolls onto his front so he can reach it.

David  
  
**Today** 11:37 PM  
**David:** Here’s a totally normal question that just occurred to me  
  
**David:** Is good different than nice to you for some reason  
  
Patrick: Goodnight, David.  
  


He rolls back and falls asleep. If there’s a smile on his face, there’s no one there to see it.

* * *

“David!” All he can see when he opens FaceTime at, _god_ , nine in the morning, is his dad’s hairline.

“I can’t see your face,” he says. “Move the phone down a little—not that far, oh my god. Don’t hold it that close to your face; that’s just your nose.”

“How are you, David?” His dad’s cheery and wearing one of his business suits, which means that either he has another meeting today or all of his casual suits are at the cleaner’s.

“Why are you calling?” They don’t do this. They haven’t done this in months, even if his parents made all kinds of blustering promises about not really leaving him behind when they did just that.

“Well, I actually had a question for you.” David shakes his head at Johnny’s words. That doesn’t sound right. “About the motel.”

“You already sent me your movie book, though,” David says. It’s too early in the day to deal with his dad’s despair over his business sense. It’s too early in the day for him to let himself be seen usually, but he made an exception for this. For some reason.

“It wasn’t a movie book,” Johnny protests. “It’s a book about business.”

“You made me read it on three separate occasions,” David says. “I know what it’s about.”

“Anyway, David, my question wasn’t about that.” Johnny swears as he loses his grip on the phone, and David closes his eyes to avoid the motion sickness that looking at the screen would cause. “I wanted to know if you could help me with a pitch.”

“You want _my_ help?”

“Well, I’m trying to pitch an old friend on a small business idea. After our time in your town and the café and the motel and all, I feel like I could really get some ideas going.”

David moves right past the idea that this is his town and not his dad’s anymore. He tries to catch up. “You’re going to open a small business?”

“Something like that, yes.” Johnny squares his shoulders. “But at a national level.”

“So a franchise?” David’s confused. “Or a chain? Because we don’t really have that here. Except Brebner’s, and I don’t think you want to know about my experience there.”

“Not a franchise,” Johnny says. “Not a chain. Small businesses at a large scale.”

“So,” David holds back a sigh, “a franchise, or a chain.”

“Of small, independent, local stores.”

David doesn’t let a smile do more than poke around his mouth for a second. His dad’s earnest, clueless grin is a sight he didn’t think he’d miss this much. “What did you want to know?”


	6. This could be the something that will last

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading!

“Are you sure I even have to go on this one?”

“David. You owe me six dates.” Stevie’s tapping on the ancient front desk keyboard gets more aggressive.

“I am aware.”

Stevie’s clacks punctuate each word. “You’ve only done five.”

“Well, one of those dates was just you sending Jake and calling it a day. Don’t pretend they were all such a struggle to plan. But I think we can agree that if it hasn’t happened by now, it won’t happen this time.” David fiddles with the corners of the stack of towels he’s folding. He needs to keep his hands busy, so he picks another towel out of the hamper and folds it in half lengthwise and then into neat thirds. He knows he could have gotten out of all of this if he texted Grace, but it just. Didn’t feel right. So he let her know that and took his chances bailing on Stevie’s setup without an excuse. “And there’s a lot on my plate right now.”

“There’s a lot on your plate.” Stevie stops playing Freecell and turns to fully face him.

“I’m just feeling very overwhelmed. And busy.” David refuses to make eye contact with Stevie when she gets like this.

“Name three things that are on your plate.”

“I’m so glad you asked,” David says. He doesn’t usually get to complain about three whole things before Stevie heckles him. “First, I almost touched that poison oak near the shed, and I’m still emotionally recovering from the idea that I could be all scaly and gross right now.”

“You’re dealing with your own vanity.” Stevie nods. “Next?”

“Alexis keeps sending me links to different toe rings she’s deciding between,” David says. “As if I would have an opinion other than what a stupid thing to spend money on it is.”

“You’re thinking about your sister’s feet. Sure.”

“I’m just worried that if the date you picked for tonight has a toe ring, my head will explode.” David moves on to the washcloths. “And I wouldn’t want to subject anyone to that.”

“You’re subjecting me to it right now.” Stevie pushes off of her chair and comes around the front desk. She sits on the coffee table in front of the couch. In the process, she knocks the stack of towels over. There goes his entire afternoon. “David. Do you have a real reason not to go on this date? Did one of the others work out for you?” He’s known her long enough to catch the hope in her voice, but her face isn’t giving anything away.

David levers himself off of the couch with as much dignity as he can manage—the couch is old and his knees are not as youthful and spry as they once were—and gathers the towels into some semblance of order. “None of the people you picked have made me want to stop, no.”

Stevie nudges his hip with her foot and almost topples him over just like she did with the towels. “That’s not quite what I asked.”

* * *

There’s nothing new about this.

Patrick stares at the clothes laid out on the bed. He’s not going to ask David for help this time; he actually feels good about what he picked out.

He casts about for a distraction and lets his brain focus on the menu. He normally goes for something light because awkward lulls in conversation are just the worst, but then he has to actually drink some of Ray’s soup in the car on the way home. He doesn’t want to do that tonight. Maybe an appetizer? David sang the praises of the mozzarella sticks when they split those, but he doesn’t think he’s seen David eat anything more substantial than a salad. He adds them to his mental list of options anyway. Just in case.

As he pulls on his blazer, he flexes his fingers. His hands are clammy, which is just uncalled for at this stage. There’s nothing new about this. He’s done it five times in a row and hundreds of other times besides. And if worst comes to worst—if they mess up his order, or if he spills soup in his lap before he even gets to the restaurant, or if he can’t string a compliment together despite how many are normally swirling around his head—David will be there. At least he’ll have that if anything goes wrong.

He checks his phone one last time.

David  
  
**Today** 4:21 PM  
**David:** Are you still going on a date this week?  
  
**David:** Back in the saddle and all that  
  
**Today** 5:43 PM  
**David:** Or something with less innuendo  
  


Patrick smooths the wrinkles out of the navy jacket and grabs his keys. Thank god Ray’s out on a date of his own tonight; he wasted his buffer staring at himself in the mirror.

David  
  
Patrick: Oh, back in the saddle for sure.  
  


* * *

“You really didn’t have to drive me here. I wasn’t going to back out.”

“You spent all day trying to back out.” Stevie unlocks the car doors and spins her hand in a circle impatiently. “Go on. I saw you all the way to the door, so you have no excuse for being late.”

“But what happens if I _am_ late?” David asks.

“Five more dates,” Stevie says flatly. “And I won’t try to pick people that I think you’ll like this time around. I hear Bob and Gwen are looking for a third. Though I actually don’t know their whole situation. Maybe they’re on their fourth.”

“How do you expect me to eat now that that image is in my head?” David can hear the whine in his own voice.

“Well, you wanted to be here way before I actually scheduled the date, so you’ll have time to get past the nausea.” Stevie shoves at his shoulder. “Get out of my car. I told Jake that I’d meet him at a spa for a quick...treatment. And I’m about to be late.”

“I’m going, I’m going. Far be it from me to keep Jake from his mustang, or whatever the fuck he’s calling you now.” David grabs his bag and lets Stevie dump him unceremoniously on the curb. It’s only after she’s rolled up the window and put the car in drive that he thinks to say, “Wait. Does that mean I have to find my own way home?”

Stevie flips him off as she drives away. Lovely.

David relaxes his shoulders and turns to go inside the restaurant. He leaves his name with Mandy because he doesn’t want to have another conversation with Patrick about how it’s the polite thing to do, and she says his date’s already there instead of waving him over to the bar.

He swallows down a protest and tries to scan the bar for Patrick. He’ll have to sneak off to the bathroom so he can text him about the change of plans. If Patrick even came early, that is. His stomach sinks at the idea that he now has to suffer through an evening with someone who showed up to a date half an hour early.

“Do you know anything about them?” David asks, because Mandy’s seen enough of his dates go south by this point to feel no compunctions about sharing her opinion.

“I think they might have a chance,” Mandy says. She’s smiling at him, which she’s never done before, and it’s a little off-putting considering that her dark sense of humor is one of the few things David knows to be true in this life. “You’ll have to tell me at the end, though.”

In a strange turn of events, Patrick’s already at their twin tables. He’s dressed up a little more this time around. David lets his eyes roam down the back of Patrick’s head where his hair curls the slightest bit against the nape of his neck and along the crease of his blazer’s collar. Navy is a good color on him. It won’t wash out his fair skin and will pull out the pink that inevitably rises in his cheeks once he’s a drink or two in. David hopes he didn’t pair it with anything patterned and then shakes the thought out of his head. Mandy’s saying something about switching things up tonight, and then she takes him to where Patrick’s sitting.

Patrick looks up at him, eyes wide and loud and open in the way David last saw late at night in a room with ghastly wallpaper and scratchy sheets. “Hi.”

“Hi.” David hates to do anything to cause that expression to disappear, but. “Um, you’re at my table.”

“I am,” Patrick says. He picks up a menu. “I ordered the nachos. That okay with you?”

“You can order whatever you like,” David says automatically. This doesn’t make sense. “That’s a very nice jacket.”

Patrick nods and takes a sip of his whiskey sour. “Well, I decided to go off-book and pick my own outfit this time around. Are you going to sit?”

David sits. It takes a second to whip up the requisite haughtiness to reply. “First of all, I never picked your clothes. You're not in grade school, and I had no blackmail or bargaining power. I would know; my sister's told me all about that.” He crosses his arms. “Also, thank you for finally making a reference I understand.”

Patrick pushes the plate of nachos closer to David, hope in his eyes that David doesn’t have the bandwidth to explore at this time. Not when Patrick is sitting in his booth like David shouldn’t be surprised that he’s there. “I try to meet you where you are,” he says, except that’s wrong. Patrick has not once met David where he’s at. Instead, he’s pushed and poked David toward a version of himself that feels totally foreign and wholly correct at the same time.

“Kind of you,” David breathes. “Um, what prompted this nachos choice, if I can ask? I mean, it’s not _bad._ ” He’s going to fuck this up and he doesn’t even know what this is yet. “I just—you usually order, like. Not this.”

“Well, Roland made a persuasive point about this appetizer being kind of an aphrodisiac,” Patrick says reasonably.

David wants to throttle him. He’s also beginning to suspect that it wouldn’t be wildly presumptuous to kiss him to shut him up, which is honestly a much more attractive prospect. Still, he’s been wrong about things like this before. “Patrick,” he says before he can talk himself out of it, “are you—why aren’t you at your usual table?”

“I’m where I want to be,” Patrick says. Quickly, too. David didn’t even have to say how he felt first. It’s new to be prioritized like this. He might like it.

David bounces his head back and forth instead of up and down. Hopefully it still looks like a nod.

“Did you—what are you thinking?” Patrick asks, as though that’s even a question.

“Just thinking about how we finally got to the right table.” David grabs a chip and constructs the perfect bite. Patrick’s eyes on him don’t feel like anything other than indulgence.

“I know,” Patrick says on an exhale. Then he rolls his bottom lip in, a sure sign that he’s going to poke at David. David leans forward in anticipation. “So weird, because I didn’t even think you were my type.”

David rolls his eyes and sets his chip down. Patrick steals it, and David watches it happen. He can already tell they’ll be bickering about this good-naturedly for a while. Maybe longer than he’s ever had with anyone else. “That’s not how I remember it.”

Patrick constructs his own chip for David and hands it over before he responds. There’s an unacceptable lack of salsa, but David lets it slide. “Stevie gave me something interesting today,” he says.

“I swear to god, if I find a toe ring on you I’ll kill you, then Stevie, then myself.” David crunches his chip to punctuate his point.

“Sounds messy.” Patrick wrinkles his nose. “Besides, toes on the first date? What kind of boy do you think that I am?”

David doesn’t make an innuendo, though three immediately spring to mind. “I think I’m going to find out.”

Patrick grabs David’s hand before he goes in for another bite. He can never tell Jocelyn that she was right. Besides, it’s not about the food, really. “I think you will.”

* * *

“Are you sure we can’t go somewhere else?”

Patrick checks the time on his phone and leans back against the pillows on David’s bed. “You didn’t complain when we went to Maverick’s for our four-month anniversary.”

“What would you call me rolling my eyes and huffing if not a complaint?” David’s doing something to his hair that isn’t making much of a difference, but he’s been prickly ever since his parents’ flight touched down that morning so Patrick doesn’t share this impression.

Instead, he bites back a smile. “An ordinary Tuesday, usually.”

David still isn’t looking at him, but he’s smiling. “We have to at least order something different this time. Alexis always tells her story about meeting Leighton Meester in Tijuana when we get nachos.”

“I won’t hear a word against those nachos,” Patrick sniffs.

“And I wouldn’t expect you to,” David says. “I’m just letting you know that my parents have probably heard all the same stories from Roland and Jocelyn about them. Do with that what you will.”

“Oh, god.” Patrick owes a lot to those nachos, but he’d like to meet at least one Rose without his face turning beet-red.

“I mean, they’ve heard worse.”

“It’s just daunting.” Patrick wants this to go well. He wants it to be right. He wants David’s parents to think that he’s right. Plus, he’s never met a soap opera star before. His dad texted him a laundry list of questions about the _Sunrise Bay_ reboot that he wants answers to if they come up organically. It’s a lot of pressure from all sides. “I want to make a good first impression.”

David’s eyebrows go up in that way Patrick has learned spells either gentle teasing or the least self-aware stories he’s ever heard. He can’t fight the rush of affection that tugs the corners of his mouth down as David turns to face him. “So you want help with first impressions? You’re in luck. I’m very good at those.”

Patrick shakes his head. He’s used to relationships settling out and feeling more comfortable with time, but the way he knows David after four months is...pretty unprecedented. “Should I start with insulting their clothes or move straight to insinuating that they’re boring and stuffy?”

“I’ll have you know that my track record is pretty impeccable.” David doesn’t make the same infatuated pronouncements Patrick’s tripped over and fallen into for months now as often or as clearly, but Patrick has learned to read his declarations of affection—casual and innocent enough to be permissible—in moments like this. He sets about rewarding his boyfriend for this one.

“No complaints.” Patrick gets off the bed and crosses the room to meet David by the bathroom door. He leans in and kisses just below David’s ear in that way that always leaves his boyfriend flustered and flailing.

“That’s just—we’re meeting my parents in an hour. We have to leave. You’re a menace.” But the back of David’s neck is warm when Patrick runs his fingers along it.

“Well,” Patrick says consideringly, “it’s a step up from the first few things you called me.”

“I mean it just as much,” David assures him. “Now can we go before you touch my hair? We’ll never be able to see my family again if you do.”

Patrick weighs his options. He lets the pads of his fingers ghost up to scratch at the shorter hair low on David’s head. “Only if you let me take you back to Maverick’s for our next anniversary.”

David tilts his head into the feeling and groans. Then he shakes himself out of it and frowns. “No nachos.”

But Patrick knows it’s an empty threat. David will want the nachos. “Guess it’s back to mozzarella sticks.”

“And eventually a different restaurant?” David presses.

Patrick gets the feeling that he’ll celebrate more than a few anniversaries with David. “We’ll see.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr at [fishyspots](https://fishyspots.tumblr.com/)!


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